They do his will.
Nor tassell'd silk, nor epaulet,
Nor plume, nor torse—
No splendour gilds, all sternly met,
Our foot and horse.
But, dark and still, we only glow,
Condensed in ire!
Strike, tawdry slaves and ye shall know
Our gloom is fire.
In vain your pomp, ye evil powers,