O Bastile Builder! Nature, when she shaped

Thy soul, was stricken, with a long attack

Of sleeping sickness; nor till wheel and rack

Had rusted, and man spirit had escaped

The bolsted, loathesome tomb where right was raped,

Did she awaken and, alack! alack!

Deliver thee, who, put on Freedom's back,

Would'st grab all things, at which thy Past-eyes gaped.

Freedom would humor thee; so, down he flopped

On Justice's floor to watch thee build with blocks.

Great was thy skill with walls and dungeon locks,

And with the trap, down which poor Freedom dropped

To be steel-masked, or, else, put in the stocks,

To writhe, then, with his tongue and ears, both lopped.