Or round the cope[347] her living chariot driven,
And wheeled in triumph through the signs of heaven?
O, star-eyed Science, hast thou wandered there,
To waft us home the message of despair?
Then bind the palm, thy sage’s brow to suit,
Of blasted leaf, and death distilling fruit!
4. Ah me! the laureled wreath that Murder rears,
Blood-nursed, and watered by the widow’s tears,
Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread,
As waves the night-shade[348] round the sceptic head.