But these no more are kindred shores: Here may her buckler rusting hang, Where, still at beat, thro' throbbing yores, Oppression's slave-blows dying rang. Here, all thro' fear and nothing love, As if each patient light stood mute, May ripping talons deal the Dove This branding scan--a prostitute! Thy pardon, god of lofty song, Whose fires feed the Piaerian Spring, If Truth for right to scoff at Wrong, In thy fair flame a gall-nut fling! Yes, yon, for sure, are Afric's strands, But where is the banneret of the Free? What fouling touch of harpy hands Has smirched his shield and panoply? What spouse is this, my valiant Son? What gross embrace for Freedom's kiss: These are the sheets of Abbadon, The bastard clasp high Furies hiss! O, John, was not thy bed as goodly broad As Phoebus spans twixt East and West? His, not the haunts thy fortune trode, Right burly tho', an honored guest? But thou must grudge the meaner cot-- The plainer house thy Brother built-- This text deem, foolish, out of shot: "That Have, for greed, shall sure be spilt?" Would have 'gainst Worse this wisdom bear: "Who dons the Might, but leaves her crown, Shall stand her dupe; nay, all his wear Shall never hide the thievish clown." O, John, I knew thy stomach hale and round, With mortal sense for needful prog; But this?--here any scab had led the hound, Had smelt foul fare the noseless hog! Oh yes; thy friends did this--those nothing-loaths: Their bosom's rank with self-sick stuff-- The Devil's shufflers when he goads And packs with Nice the Ne'er Enough-- The Devil, Self, and all his Swill, Who knows how deep sits sordid lust; How near all power lies to will, Our wills to the damned Unjust. Ah, yes--thy friends--each wily Dick, Or under-helmsman to that crew Who at no faith-breach blush to stick, So but their grist come safely through; Who, with the rough youth, Glory, ape apace, Quite out of mind his Elder's lease, And for a brief from fame-fee'd days, Would wash his hands in bleeding peace. And he--no neuter he--he whoops so hard, The brazen, roystering, gingo-sheet, Who serves his vomit tricked with nard, Thro' flattering brag, the bloodfiend's heat. Who weeps to think the Lion dupe To tearing wolves in shepherd's cowls, Then to his sore heart lays this stupe-- That there were innings to the howls-- And all for Empire: scape-goat-thing! Look down, proud pile, at thine own feet! Do not, thro' knell, the ages sing How tainted base, the top-strong seat Shall, tumbling, empty all their sham, And blaze this line on Story's page-- That Fill thro' Foul may never dam, Or check the course her Vengers wage.