Made murder’s scarlet robe seem white--
Whose vain deluding phantoms charmed
A clouded sullen soul, and arm’d
A desperate hand, thirsty of blood)
Torn from the fair earth where it stood!
So the majestic fabric fell.
His actions let our annals tell;
We write no chronicle; this pile
Wears only sorrow’s face and style;
Which e’en the envy that did wait