Classic Poem

WRITTEN IN A SUPERB INDIAN BED .

I F Persian bed, on plume of down,
With joy could the possessor crown,
With Asiatic splendour blest,
How sure were I of blissful rest!
But nothing on the dungeon'd straw,
Devoted by the hand of Law,
Has more of horror, more of pain,
Than mine — adorn'd with India's gain.
My head is tortur'd on the rack,
With softest cushions at my back;
My face a martyr is in flames,
Though costly chintz my passion claims.
I toss on Wellesley's rival sheets;
Nay, Tippoo's guilt my person heats.
With gay festoons the curtain smiles,
But not a single twinge beguiles.
" If these, " quoth I, " are giant pains,
The guiltless doom of Autumn rains;
Oh, tell me, Asia , what are those
Which nightly haunt thy pamper'd foes;
Nor flush alone their cheek with shame,
Consuming as the maniac's flame;
But fly to the offending part,
And pinch and screw the Tyrant's heart.