Speaks, in the mighty-voiced Miltonic way,
"Of Peace," and "how in safety best we may
Compose our present evils, with regard
Of what we are and were." Mammon's award
Is now more martial: Mammon, swoln and proud
With domination o'er the moiling crowd,
Lifts a most arrogant head, and coldly curls
An insolent lip against the clod-soul'd churls
Whose destiny and duty 'tis to slave
'Twixt cradle comfortless and cheerless grave,