You have got your revenge, old buster—the crown is come to its own, and more than its own.
Stick your hands in your pockets, Jonathan—you are a made man from this day, You are mighty cute—and here is one of your bargains.
Europe
The 72nd and 73rd Years of These States
Suddenly out of its stale and drowsy lair, the lair of slaves, Like lightning it le’pt forth half startled at itself, Its feet upon the ashes and the rags, its hands tight to the throats of kings.
O hope and faith! O aching close of exiled patriots’ lives! O many a sicken’d heart! Turn back unto this day and make yourselves afresh.
And you, paid to defile the People—you liars, mark! Not for numberless agonies, murders, lusts, For court thieving in its manifold mean forms, worming from his simplicity the poor man’s wages, For many a promise sworn by royal lips and broken and laugh’d at in the breaking, Then in their power not for all these did the blows strike revenge, or the heads of the nobles fall; The People scorn’d the ferocity of kings.
But the sweetness of mercy brew’d bitter destruction, and the frighten’d monarchs come back, Each comes in state with his train, hangman, priest, tax-gatherer, Soldier, lawyer, lord, jailer, and sycophant.
Yet behind all lowering stealing, lo, a shape, Vague as the night, draped interminably, head, front and form, in scarlet folds, Whose face and eyes none may see, Out of its robes only this, the red robes lifted by the arm, One finger crook’d pointed high over the top, like the head of a snake appears.