XXXVII.

Dumb be your voices while the thunder-chime Peals from Pyrene’s turrets, echoing far. While roar the elements with rage sublime, Hushed be your strife, Pygmæan men of war! See, see, ye tremble at the lightning-scar. Your brands are sheath’d--ye feel as feathers, dust. Away! nor God’s designs profanely mar, Wreaking on brother-forms your gory lust. In vain! France tempts her doom, and England holds her trust!