Just Order’s goodly fabric falls,
Whilst the mad people cries, “To arms! to arms!”
With thee Proscription, child of strife,
With Death’s choice implements, is seen,
Her Murderer’s gun, Assassin’s knife,
And, “last not least in love,” her darling Guillotine.
Fond Hope is thine,—the hope of Spoil,
And Faith,—such faith as ruffians keep:
They prosper thy destructive toil,
That makes the Widow mourn, the helpless Orphan weep.