Like some poor maniac raging wild,
Or some indulged and petted child,
Who for a rattle or a straw,
Some gilded trifle or gewgaw,
Screams madly with his ebbing breath,
You grasp your idols,—strong in death!
Enough! your purpose we perceive,
And spurn your doctrines! while we grieve
For our dear land’s supreme disgrace,
Defiled and tortured by your race;