That we must sit much wroth, but timorous more,
With murder knocking at our neighbour’s door!—
Not murder masked and cloaked with hidden knife,
Whose owner owes the gallows life for life;
But Public Murder!—that with pomp and gaud,
And royal scorn of Justice walks abroad
To wring more tears and blood than e’er were wrung
By all the culprits Justice ever hung!
We read the diademed Assassin’s vaunt,
And wince, and wish we had not hearts to pant