Hath menace which auxiliar from the North
May scarce avert. The scales of Justice tilt
Something askew. The curse of high-placed guilt
Is on you, if the warning tocsin's knell,
Clanging forth fiercely, hath not force to tell
The hearer that Fate's hourglass fast runs out.
That spectral Comet flames, beset about
With miasmatic mist, and lurid fume,
Conquering Corruption threatens hideous doom.
Yet, yet the Bow of Promise gleams above,