She is loath to hear the voice of war, she shrinketh from a foe:
Come, in our turn, let us sojourn in her goodly haunts of joy,
In the pillared porch to wave the torch, and her palaces destroy:
Proud as when first thou slak’st thy thirst in the flow of conquered Seine,
Ay, thou shalt lave within that wave thy blood-red flank again: Then proudly neigh, &c.
Kings are beleaguered on their thrones by their own vassal crew,
And in their den quake noblemen, and priests are bearded too.
And loud they yelp for the Cossack’s help to keep their bondsmen down,
And they think it meet, while they kiss our feet, to wear a tyrant’s crown.
The sceptre now to my lance shall bow, and the crosier and the cross,