Where flows the tide of life and light,
Amid the city's hum,
There let the cry, at dead of night,
Be heard, 'They come, they come!'
Mid scenes of sweet domestic bliss,
Pour shells of livid fire,
While red-hot balls among them hiss,
To make the work entire
And when the scream of agony
Is heard above the din,
_Then_ ply your guns with energy,
And throw your columns in
Thro' street and lane, thro' house and church,
The sword and faggot hear,
And every inmost recess search,
To fill with shrieks the air
Where waving fields and smiling homes
Now deck the sunny plain,
And laughter-loving childhood roams
Unmoved by care or pain;
Let famine gaunt and grim despair
Behind you stalk along,
And pestilence taint all the air
With victims from the strong
Let dogs from mangled beauty's cheeks
The flesh and sinews tear,
And craunch the bones around for weeks,
And gnaw the skulls till bare
Let vultures gather round the heaps
Made up of man and beast,
And, while the widowed mother weeps,
Indulge their horrid feast,
Till, startled by wild piteous groans,
On dreary wings they rise,
To come again, mid dying moans,
And tear out glazing eyes
_Tho'_ widows' tears, and orphans' cries,
When starving round the spot
Where much-loved forms once met their eyes
Which now are left to rot,
With trumpet-tongue, for vengeance call
Upon each guilty head
That drowns, mid revelry and brawls,
Remembrance of the dead.
Pages:
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184