Shall with its dirges drown the sacred hymn,
And round your royal hearth the curse shall rise
Of lowly hearths laid waste to suit your whim.
And you shall think on altars left forlorn,
On temple-aisles made desolate at your nod,
Where never a white-robed choir this holy morn
Shall chant their greeting to the Birth of God.
Peace? There is none for you, nor can be none;
For still shall Memory, like a fetid breath,
Poison your life-days while the slow hours run,