The shock of shells, the furious fire-ball’s heat—
All are but easy triumphs of my hands,
All are but humble spoils beneath my feet;
If against me no palace-wall is proof,
Ah! what can save the lowly cottage-roof?
Beauty, nor power, nor genius, can survive,
Naught can resist my voice when I sweep by;
For whatsoever has been let to live,
It is my destined duty to see die.
With all the stern commands that thou mayst give,