Thy altars swells the midnight cry of death;
The tocsin summons—not to brave the foe,
But to make bare thy bosom to the blow;
From thy own quiver flies the shaft of doom,
And thy own children hollow out thy tomb.
The exulting shouts that mock thee in thy shame,
Were those that led thee once to heights of fame;
The bird that swoops to riot on thy breast,
Is the same eagle that made safe thy nest.
Hark at his shrilly scream! the sleuth-hounds wake,