Throned upon the wingéd storm,
Fell Desolation rears her ghastly form,
Waves her black signal to her Hell-born brood,
And lures them thus with promised blood:
A. 1.
“Drive, my sons, the storm amain!
Lo, the hated, envied land,
Where Piety and Order reign,
And Freedom dares maintain her stand.
Have ye not sworn, by night and hell,