Raised from the dead by invocative rhyme,
Albeit this no Booke of Magick seems:
Now,—while few questions of the fleeting hour
Cease to perplex, or task th’ unwilling mind,—
Lest party-strife our better-Reason blind
To the dread evils waiting still on Power.
We see Old England torn by civil wars,
Oppress’d by gloomy zealots—men whose chain
More galled because of Regicidal stain,
Hiding from view all honourable scars: