Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurled,
Her name, her nature, withered from the world!
Ye that the rising morn invidious mark,
And hate the light—because your deeds are dark;
Ye that expanding truth invidious view,
And think, or wish, the song of Hope untrue;
Perhaps your little hands presume to span
The march of Genius, and the powers of man;
Perhaps ye watch, at Pride’s unhallowed shrine,
Her victims, newly slain, and thus divine:—