Or firm the twigs are interlaced;
Then dies all freedom from the conquered land,—
Then is the ancient tower compelled to stand,
Supporting by its strength the plant whose sway,
Like despot monarch’s, brings it sure decay.
Years wear away, the despot’s crown
Is green with laurel of renown.
In slavery the nation groans:
Griped by the iron twigs, the stones,
Disjointed from their firm array