  Fame long took wary note of him, So did proud England, too, who, from his hand, In the blood-red, flowery vintage of her land, Has drained his pledges to their bitter brim, Till, within the fiery cups, well-nigh an Empire swim, Staggers for sure foot, wonders at that dizzy head, What craze infatuate demons in yon soft spot bred, Whence this vile feeling in each once firm limb? What worked such odious rouse in one so free? Made this man loathe her, so defy all fate, That in his eye the price has fallen of all things but Hate, Wide Earth, unregioned, where her realms not be? Cries here not, summoning, out, like from some Fury’s song, For ’ts dreadful due, some fierce, intolerable Wrong? |
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