Complaint

COMPLAINT

The Fate of Mind to none at all is known,
This lustrous gem still decks the British crown.
Her peasant seems like corpse for want and dearth,
Whose rotten shroud is still beneath the earth.
His soul and frame to aliens have been sold,
Alas! the soul on lodge has lost its hold.
With Europe's bondage you are quite content,
No plaint 'gainst them, but I your act resent.