text_original: VII. But ere thy lyre is strung to martial strains Of wars which sent our hero o'er the plains, To add the cypress to his laureled brow, Be brave, my Muse, and darker truths avow. Let Justice ask a preface to thy songs, Before the Indian's crimes declare his wrongs; Before effects, wherein all horrors blend, Declare the shameful cause, precursor of the end.
text_transcription: VEN BUT ERE THY LIAR IS STRUNG TO MARTIAL STRAINS OF WARS WHICH SEND OUR HERO OVER THE PLAINS TO ADD THE CYPRESS TO HIS LAUREL BROW BE BRAVE MY MUSE AND DARKER TRUTH AVOW LET JUSTICE ASK A PREFACE TO THY SONGS BEFORE THE INDIAN'S CRIMES DECLARE HIS WRONGS BEFORE EFFECTS WHEREIN ALL HORRORS BLEND DECLARE THE SHAMEFUL CAUSE PRECURSOR OF THE END
phonemes: ɹˌoʊmən sˈɛvən. bˌʌt ˈɛɹ ðˌaɪ lˈaɪɚɹ ɪz stɹˈʌŋ tə mˈɑːɹʃəl stɹˈeɪnz ʌv wˈɔːɹz wˌɪtʃ sˈɛnt ˌaʊɚ hˈiəɹoʊ ˈɔːɹ ðə plˈeɪnz, tʊ ˈæd ðə sˈaɪpɹəs tə hɪz lˈɔːɹəld bɹˈaʊ, biː bɹˈeɪv, maɪ mjˈuːz, ænd dˈɑːɹkɚ tɹˈuːθs ɐvˈaʊ. lˈɛt dʒˈʌstɪs ˈæsk ɐ pɹˈɛfəs tə ðˌaɪ sˈɔŋz, bᵻfˌɔːɹ ðɪ ˈɪndiənz kɹˈaɪmz dᵻklˈɛɹ hɪz ɹˈɔŋz; bᵻfˌɔːɹ ɪfˈɛkts, wˈɛɹɪn ˈɔːl hˈɔɹɚz blˈɛnd, dᵻklˈɛɹ ðə ʃˈeɪmfəl kˈɔːz, pɹɪkˈɜːsɚɹ ʌvðɪ ˈɛnd.