Yes, Francis! thine was the dear knife that tore
A tyrant’s heart-strings from his guilty breast,
Thine was the daring at a tyrant’s gore,
To smile in triumph, to contemn the rest;
And thine, loved glory of thy sex! to tear _55
From its base shrine a despot’s haughty soul,
To laugh at sorrow in secure despair,
To mock, with smiles, life’s lingering control,
And triumph mid the griefs that round thy fate did roll.
Yes! the fierce spirits of the avenging deep _60
With endless tortures goad their guilty shades.
I see the lank and ghastly spectres sweep
Along the burning length of yon arcades;
And I see Satan stalk athwart the plain;
He hastes along the burning soil of Hell. _65
‘Welcome, ye despots, to my dark domain,
With maddening joy mine anguished senses swell
To welcome to their home the friends I love so well.’
…
Hark! to those notes, how sweet, how thrilling sweet
They echo to the sound of angels’ feet. _70
…
Oh haste to the bower where roses are spread,
For there is prepared thy nuptial bed.
Oh haste—hark! hark!—they’re gone.
…
CHORUS OF SPIRITS:
Stay, ye days of contentment and joy,
Whilst love every care is erasing, _75
Stay ye pleasures that never can cloy,
And ye spirits that can never cease pleasing.
And if any soft passion be near,
Which mortals, frail mortals, can know,
Let love shed on the bosom a tear, _80
And dissolve the chill ice-drop of woe.