When tyrants tread the hill-top and the valley,
Calling the birth-right of the brave their own,
Around the tomb of Liberty they rally,
And roll away the stone: —
Or, roused by some dark peril, they have written
Words that awe Guilt behind his guarded wall,
Or, by the lightning of their numbers smitten,
Beheld the Bigot fall.
Though fierce, unbridled passions, running riot,
Hiss like Medusa’s vipers in the breast,