By hypocritic rest; no, no, the work proceeds,
From sacred pinnacles are hung the flags
That give the sign to slip the leash for slaughter,
The bells whose knoll a holy calmness poured
Into the good man’s breast, whose sound consoled
The sick, the poor, the old—perversion dire!
Pealing with sulphurous tongue, speak death-fraught words.
From morn to eve destruction revels frenzied,
Till at the hour when peaceful vesper chimes
Were wont to sooth the ear, the trumpet sounds