Their heritage away—who clasp the bands
On their own limbs, and crawl and blindly go
Like timorous fawns to their own overthrow.
Shall we thus fall? Is it so difficult
To think that we are free, yet be not so—
To shatter down by one brief hour of guilt
The holy fane of Freedom that our fathers built.
AGATHÈ.—A NECROMAUNT.
IN THREE CHIMERAS.