Without me, one hath bowed under a prisoner Yea under the slain, do they fall! For all this, hath his anger, not turned back, But still, is his hand outstretched.

And the people will, tyrannise, Every man over his fellow-man, And every man over his friend, - And they will rage The boy against, the elder, And the despised, against, the honourable,

Then shall criers meet with howlers, And, the shaggy creature, unto his fellow, shall call, - Only, there, shall, the night-spectre, Make her settlement, And find for herself a place of rest: