And call’d the “kingdom” of a conquering foe,—
But knows what all—and, most of all, we know—
With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles!
IV.
The name of Commonwealth is past and gone
O’er the three fractions of the groaning globe;
Venice is crush’d, and Holland deigns to own
A sceptre, and endures the purple robe;
If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone
His chainless mountains, ’tis but for a time,130
For tyranny of late is cunning grown,
And in its own good season tramples down
The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime,
Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean
Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion
Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and
Bequeath’d—a heritage of heart and hand,
And proud distinction from each other land,
Whose sons must bow them at a monarch’s motion,
As if his senseless sceptre were a wand140
Full of the magic of exploded science—
