Alas, Victoria! Nation-lov'd Regina!
Thy Kinglings make their infamy our own.
England! where now is saviour-sold Messina?
Slain are her sons, her palaces o'erthrown.
Thy felon Steuart was not mean and base
As Blum's destroyer. Give him, then, thy hand.
Thou loath'd of Nature! Dost thou know the land
In which the loathing earth-worm slinks not down,
When sad winds name thee, near her dwelling-place?
Betrayer of Mankind in Freedom's name!
Who doth not think of thee and thine with shame?
The damn'd of old, redeem'd by thy disgrace,
Brighten in Hell. The angels suffer pain,
Blushing for thee, where Eliot, Hampden, Vane,
Ask of each other, “Died we, then, in vain?”