And now the asp-hearted Anarch's mad alarms
Make monstrous tumult in the midst of peace
We cry "let brothers band till Cain-like slayers cease!"
The slaughtered son you bear from forth the fray,—
Like some winged Victory, or a Goddess high,
With steps unshaken, glance that seeks the sky,
Such as your glorious sculptors shape from clay,—
Was noble, brave, and blameless; him to slay
Was the blood-blinded phrenzy of black hate.
Through him the Anarch struck at your high state,