Of proved Destruction o’er thee blows,
And sentenced fields grow black in death.
6. In horror of a new despair
His blood-shot eyes the peasant strains,
With hands clenched fast, and lifted hair,
Along the daily-darkening plains.
7. “Why trusted he to them his store?
“Why feared he not the scourge to come?”
Fool! turn the page of History o’er—
The roll of Statutes—and be dumb!