And grief's sad monotone,
From hearts, like flints, beaten by tyrant hoofs;
And I saw crowds in sombre sweating-dens,
With reeking walls and dank and dripping roofs—
Fit scarce for styes or pens.
Death at home's sin-stained threshold; honour's fall
Dislodging from her throne love's household pet,
And wan-faced purity a tyrant's thrall,
With wild eyes sorrow-wet.
And unsexed women facing heated blasts