Mark her fair votaries, prodigal of grief,
140
With cureless pangs, and woes that mock relief,
Droop in soft sorrow o’er a faded flower;
O’er a dead Jack-Ass pour the pearly shower;
But hear, unmoved, of Loire’s ensanguined flood,
Choked up with slain; of Lyons drenched in blood;
Of crimes that blot the age, the world, with shame,
Foul crimes, but sicklied o’er with Freedom’s name;
Altars and thrones subverted; social life