To the Lord Chancellor

Thy country's curse is on thee, darkest crest Of that foul, knotted, many-headed worm Which rends our Mother's bosom--Priestly Pest! Masked Resurrection of a buried Form! Thy country's curse is on thee! Justice sold, Truth trampled, Nature's landmarks overthrown, And heaps of fraud-accumulated gold, Plead, loud as thunder, at Destruction's throne. And whilst that sure slow Angel which aye stands Watching the beck of Mutability Delays to execute her high commands, And, though a nation weeps, spares thine and thee, Oh, let a father's curse be on thy soul, And let a daughter's hope be on thy tomb; Be both, on thy gray head, a leaden cowl To weigh thee down to thine approaching doom.…