Chapter LXII

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In such a state, would not a Cæsar rise,
And chain the nation to his gory car,
And pluck from out the blue of our bright skies,
To form his diadem, that falling star?
Then, one by one, each brilliant light would fall,
And primal chaos desolate them all--
While Tyranny, with loud prophetic shout,
Would wave his bloody sword, as each and all went out!