The new one on the lecturn lies,
Its leaves the turning hand await;
Those fresh unopen’d leaves comprise
Th’ unread, but written words of Fate.
O God! what are they? if they be
The bloody words of ruffian war,
Grant us success!—but rather far
Avert the scourge of victory!
Too dear the price! Ah! human forms
Of guardian husbands, cherish’d sons