Not now, nor past, nor future shall anguish
Prevail in piceous depths betwixt Hell
And Heaven bright whence He shall dwell,
Despotic, casting voices to perish
Where I, in sombre woe, conceive visions
Of His tyrant reign. Grotesque agony
Has been wrought by His seat, high, joyfully
Quaking the decrepit Earth. Gaily
Does His crown manacle our once free Souls.

From death once wrought verisimilar chimes
Of a nation brought to glory’s righteous
Heart, but now pharaonic cries tread grim
From the Second with such semblance of high,
Righteous Sovran and now hath released His
Ministers of Vengeance upon us whole.
In atramentous grief, descrying the
Bright cynosure in golden sleep beckon,
The Heav'nly Muse my soul does possess.