When stern Brissot’s grizzly shade
His sad bands was seen to muster,
And his bleeding troops arrayed.
Through the drunken crowd he hied him,
Where the chieftain sate enthroned,
There, his shadowy trunks beside him,
Thus in threatening accents groaned:
“Heed, oh heed our fatal story,
(I am Brissot’s injured Ghost),
You who hope to purchase glory