The captive usurper, hurled down from the throne,
Layed buried in torpor, forgotten and low.
I broke through his slumbers, I sheared through his chain.
I leagued him with numbers; He's tyrant again.
The city lies sleeping, the morn to deplore it,
May dawn on it weeping, suddenly, slowly.
The black plague flew o'er it, thousands lie lowly.
Tens of thousands shall perish, the living shall fly from,
The sigh they should cherish, but nothing can vanquish,
The touch that they die from. Sorry and anguish,
And evil and dread, envelop a nation.
The blest are the dead, who see not the sight,
Of their own destruction. This work of a night,
This wreck of a realm, this deed of our doing,
For ages we've done, and shall still be renewing.
Our hearts contain the hearts of men.
Our footsteps are their graves, we only take to give again,
The spirits of our slaves.
