Muir, Ashley, Barlow, Buonaparte, Paine!
While Rowan's hand directs the blood-empurpled rein.
Ye Imps of Murder! guard her angel form,
Check the rude surge, and chase the hovering storm;
Shield from contusive rocks her timber limbs,
And guide the sweet Enthusiast[79] as she swims;
—And now, with web-foot oars, she gains the land,
And foreign footsteps press the yielding sand:
—The Communes spread, the gay Departments smile,
Fair Freedom's Plant o'ershades the laughing isle: