Swept on by faction's fiery blast.
In its blood-stain'd track, a fool, a child!
His doom is fix'd—his lot is cast.
Yet scowls by his bier earth's blackest knave.
Be silent, wretches!—spare the grave!
They dress'd the cold clay in mimic state,
And the peasants came crowding round;
And many a vow of revenge and hate
In that hour on their souls was bound—
Oh! ruthless creed, that never forgave!