‘Of pyres and axes—and of men who stood
‘And hewed down arms that fondly twined with theirs—
‘And watched the gushing stream that had its source
‘In their own veins! But you—you rend asunder
‘The hidden strings of life—and yoke the spirit
‘To falsehood, from whose dark and subtle fold
‘No force can set it free! and when ’tis done,
‘And the soul wears the hue of misery—
‘And the brain burns—ye would repent the work
‘Yourself have wrought!’