IV.

With eye averted and an anguished frown, Loathingly glides the Muse through scenes of strife, Where, like the heart of Vengeance up and down, Throbs in its framework the blood-muffled knife; Slow are the steps of Freedom, but her feet Turn never backward: hers no bloody glare; Her light is calm, and innocent, and sweet, And where it enters there is no despair: Not first on palace and cathedral spire Quivers and gleams that unconsuming fire; While these stand black against her morning skies, The peasant sees it leap from peak to peak Along his hills; the craftsman's burning eyes Own with cool tears its influence mother-meek; It lights the poet's heart up like a star;-- Ah! while the tyrant deemed it still afar, And twined with golden threads his futile snare, That swift, convicting glow all round him ran; 'Twas close beside him there, Sunrise whose Memnon is the soul of man.