O’er Gallia wav’d her crimson wings,
Ere yet she spoil’d with iron hand
Fair Europe’s desolated land;
Her offspring here, a spurious brood,
In faction nurs’d, inur’d to blood,
Elate with Hope, perplex’d with Fear,
Would often raise the listening ear;
And all their mother’s wonders tell,
And throng around her secret cell,
Ranting, bribing, whispering, trembling,