THE MASK OF ANARCHY:. WRITTEN ON THE OCCASION OF THE MASSACRE AT MANCHESTER. 1819. I. As I lay asleep in Italy There came a voice from over the Sea, II. I met Murder on the way- III. All were fat; and well they might For one by one, and two by two, He tossed them human hearts to chew IV. Next came Fraud, and he had on, V. And the little children, who Round his feet played to and fro, Thinking every tear a gem, Had their brains knocked out by them. VI. Clothed with the Bible, as with light,1 Like Sidmouth, next, Hypocrisy VII. And many more Destructions played VIII. Last came Anarchy: he rode On a white horse, splashed with blood; IX. And he wore a kingly crown; And in his grasp a sceptre shone; "I AM GOD, AND KING, AND LAW!" X. With a pace stately and fast, 1 This stanza is not very clear; but I suppose we are to understand that the Bible is a mingled web of light and darkness,-of high thought and teaching and gross and bloody superstition, that dogmas and professions from the Hebrew scriptures were the favourite cloke for hypocrisy in those days,--and that Hypocrisy, wearing a mask like Lord Sidmouth, had clothed itself in that familiar cloke for the pageant. -ED. XI. And a mighty troop around With their trampling shook the ground, For the service of their Lord. XII. And with glorious triumph they Of the wine of desolation. XIII. O'er fields and towns, from sea to sea, XIV. And each dweller, panic-stricken, XV. For with pomp to meet him came, XVI. "We have waited, weak and lone, "For thy coming, Mighty One! "Our purses are empty, our swords are cold, "Give us glory, and blood, and gold." XVII. Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd, XVIII. Then all cried with one accord, “Thou art King, and God, and Lord; Anarchy, to thee we bow, "Be thy name made holy now!" XIX. And Anarchy, the Skeleton, Bowed and grinned to every one, Had cost ten millions to the nation. XX. For he knew the Palaces Of our Kings were rightly his; XXI. So he sent his slaves before To seize upon the Bank and Tower, XXII. When one fled past, a maniac maid, 66 XXIII. 'My father Time is weak and grey "With waiting for a better day; See how idiot-like he stands, 66 Fumbling with his palsied hands! XXIV. "He has had child after child, "And the dust of death is piled Over every one but meMisery, oh, Misery!" 66 XXV. Then she lay down in the street, XXVI. When between her and her foes XXVII. Till as clouds grow on the blast, XXVIII. It grew-a Shape arrayed in mail |