Put on Deception’s mask, then vent your spite,
Sharpen your fangs, and gnaw, and rend, and kill—
’Tis a sweet banquet—eat and drink your fill;
Ye can thrive well on malice—but forbear
To stir the ashes of the dead, your skill
Can never fan a glowing ember there,
At which the hated torch of vengeance to repair.
Look on the dead, and if ye cower and quail
To think that ye shall be like them one day—
That the cold coffin-worm, with slimy trail,