I see the European headsman, He stands mask’d, clothed in red, with huge legs and strong naked arms, And leans on a ponderous axe.
(Whom have you slaughter’d lately European headsman? Whose is that blood upon you so wet and sticky?)
I see the clear sunsets of the martyrs, I see from the scaffolds the descending ghosts, Ghosts of dead lords, uncrown’d ladies, impeach’d ministers, rejected kings, Rivals, traitors, poisoners, disgraced chieftains and the rest.
I see those who in any land have died for the good cause, The seed is spare, nevertheless the crop shall never run out, (Mind you O foreign kings, O priests, the crop shall never run out.)