Faction, whose felon fury, blind and wild,
Would rend our land, as Circe tore her child,
In sordid cunning or insensate wrath,
Scattering its quivering limbs along her path—
Ev’n Faction, at his name, will cower away,
And, shrieking, shrinking, shield her from the day.
Then up to duty! true, as he was true;
As pure, as calm, as firm to bear and do;
Nerve every patriot power, knit every limb,
And up to duty: but weep not for him!