Page:Joan of Arc - Southey (1796).djvu/371

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BOOK THE NINTH.
359
To beat. Accursed hour! for man no moreTo Justice paid his homage, but forsook 845Her altars, and bow'd down before the shrineOf Wealth and Power, the Idols he had made.Then Hell enlarg'd herself, her gates flew wide,Her legion fiends rush'd forth. Oppression cameWhose frown is desolation, and whose breath 850Blasts like the Pestilence; and Poverty,A meagre monster, who with withering touchMakes barren all the better part of man,Mother of Miseries; then the goodly earthWhich God had framed for happiness, became 855One theatre of woe, and all that GodHad given to bless free men, these tyrant fiendsHis bitterest curses made. Yet for the bestHath he ordained all things, the All-wise!For by experience rous'd shall man at length 860Dash down his Moloch-gods, Samson-likeAnd burst his fetters—only strong whilst strongBelieved; then in the bottomless abyss

Oppression

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