And a few rags of roasted flesh, alone shall show where died—
The noble and the beautiful, the baby and the bride!
O fire, he is a noble thing!—the sot's pipe gives him birth;
Or from the livid thunder-cloud he leaps alive on earth;
Or in the western wilderness devouring silently;
Or on the lava rocking in the womb of Stromboli.
Right well in Hamburg revell'd he—though Elbe ran rolling by—
He could have drain'd—so fierce his thirst—the mighty river dry!
With silk, and gold, and diamond, he cramm'd his hungry maw;
And he tamed the wild republicans, who knew nor lord nor law!