If they that make the cause might taste th’ effect,
And drink, themselves, the bitter cup they mix,
Then might the bard (tho’ child of peace) delight
To twine fresh wreaths around the Conqueror’s brow;
Or haply strike his high-toned harp, to swell
The trumpet’s martial sound, and bid them on
Whom Justice arms for vengeance: but, alas!
That undistinguishing and deathful storm
Beats heaviest on th’ exposed innocent,
And they that stir its fury, while it raves,