POEMS WRITTEN IN 1819. THE MASQUE OF ANARCHY. As I lay asleep in Italy, There came a voice from over the sea, II. I met Murder on the way; III. All were fat; and well they might For one by one, and two by two, He tossed them human hearts to chew, IV. Next came Fraud, and he had on, Like Lord E- an ermine gown; His big tears, for he wept well, Turned to mill-stones as they fell; 14 VOL. III. V. And the little children, who Round his feet played to and fro, Thinking every tear a gem, Had their brains knocked out by them. VI. Clothed with the bible as with light, And the shadow of the night, Like S*** next, Hypocrisy, On a crocodile came by. VII. And many more Destructions played In this ghastly masquerade, All disguised, even to the eyes, Like bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies. VIII. Last came Anarchy; he rode On a white horse splashed with blood; He was pale even to the lips, Like Death in the Apocalypse. IX. And he wore a kingly crown; "I am God, and King, and Law!" X. With a pace stately and fast, XI. And a mighty troop around With their trampling shook the ground, Waving each a bloody sword For the service of their lord. XII. And, with glorious triumph, they Drunk as with intoxication Of the wine of desolation. XIII. O'er fields and towns, from sea to sea, Passed the pageant swift and free, XIV. And each dweller, panic-stricken, Of the triumph of Anarchy. XV. For with pomp to meet him came, XVI. "We have waited, weak and lone, For thy coming, Mighty One! Our purses are empty, our swords are cold, Give us glory, and blood, and gold." XVII. Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd, XVIII. Then all cried with one accord, "Thou art King, and Law, and Lord; Anarchy, to thee we bow, Be thy name made holy now!" XIX. And Anarchy, the skeleton, Bowed and grinned to every one, Had cost ten millions to the nation. XX. For he knew the palaces Of our kings were nightly his; His the sceptre, crown, and globe, And the gold-inwoven robe. XXI. So he sent his slaves before To seize upon the Bank and Tower, XXII. When one fled past, a maniac maid, And her name was Hope, she said; But she looked more like Despair, And she cried out in the air: XXIII. "My father, Time, is weak and gray With waiting for a better day; See how idiot-like he stands, Trembling with his palsied hands! XXIV. "He has had child after child, And the dust of death is piled |