 | Poems |  |
159
XIII.
TO THE SAME.
IN 1849.
O, had it been thy lot that hour to die,The Pantheon would boast a dearer name
Than all who there oblivion defy!
Now thou hast won the cruel bigot's fame;
Apostate, crouching in a tyrant's lair
From the just hate of those thou hast betrayed,
The craven fears of regal allies share,
And shun the hecatomb thy baseness made!
Thou art the skeleton at Freedom's feast,
To which thy voice so blandly called the world.
How soon the man was vanquished by the priest,
And in the dust the faith of nations hurled!
God speeds the new crusade for human rights,
While patient scorn thy cowardice requites.
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