 | The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott
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XXIII.
Oh, can July with woodbines ring her fingers,
And crown with roses her too regal head,
While, pale as snow, distracted Freedom lingers,
Gazing on cities where her best have bled?
Worriers of Nations! render up your dead!
Calabrian Polecat! many dead are thine:
Twice on thy people's heart's blood hast thou fed.
Cur of Vienna! can thy teeth be red
With Roman gore, and desolation's wine,
And thou a Cæsar? Be thou, then, the last
That Roman will endure, or Europe see.
Oh, Etna's Isle! Rome! Venice! Italy!
Among your martyr's bones these vermin cast,
And on their doings let them feast or fast.
| The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott
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