Oft strikes at Treason, and his base abettors,
Bringing their grandeur low.
Armed with a scroll, the birds of evil omen
That curse a country he can scare away,
Or in the wake of Error marshal foemen
Impatient for the fray.
Scorn not the Sons of Song! or deem them only
Poor, worthless weeds upon the shore of Time;
Although they move in walks retired and lonely,
They have their tasks sublime.