Earth doth not hold so lone a waste
But there his footsteps shall be traced;
Devotion hath no shrine so blest
That there in safety he may rest.
Where’er he treads, let Vengeance there
Around him spread her secret snare!
In the busy haunts of men,
In the still and shadowy glen,
When the social board is crown’d,
When the wine-cup sparkles round;