Your hour has struck, your tyrants face their doom,
But let hot haste unsettle temperate order,
And Hope's bright disc will feel eclipse's gloom.
This is a lying spirit, sly and sinister,
Its promise false, its loud incitements vain.
Not to your true advantage shall it minister,
Mere Goblin Gold its glittering show of Gain:
Spectre of Chaos and the Abyss, it flutters
Before you flaunting high its foolish fire,
But there's a lie in each loud word it utters,