The foul familiar lineaments affright him;
Its pose of menace and its pointing hand
To caution urge, to providence invite him,
To foil this scourge of the Distressful Land.
Who does not fear to speak of Forty-Seven,
When that same Shadow darkened all the isle?
Is it abroad once more? Avert it, Heaven!
On Order's lips it chills the dawning smile;
Awakener of hushed fears and hatreds dying,
Blighter of more than Nature's genial growth,