O, Hun, from what low beast didst thou descend?

That thou shouldst have the lust to kill and rend;

The bestial passion to enjoy the groans

Of suffering victims, while you crunch their bones

Or gouge their eyes, that mutely plead in vain

For quick oblivion and ease from pain?

Of ponderous cast and savage mien, what teat,

With Hatred filled and Passion's fiery heat,

Reared thee more wolf than man? ill-bred,—a curse

To thine own kind, and to the Universe!