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Poem	("Laissons le glaive à Rome.") {Bk. III. xvi., October, 1852.} Pray Rome put up her poniard! And Sparta sheathe the sword; Be none too prompt to punish, And cast indignant word! Bear back your spectral Brutus From robber Bonaparte; Time rarely will refute us Who doom the hateful heart. Ye shall be o'ercontented, My banished mates from home, But be no rashness vented Ere time for joy shall come. No crime can outspeed Justice, Who, resting, seems delayed— Full faith accord the angel Who points the patient blade. The traitor still may nestle In balmy bed of state, But mark the Warder, watching His guardsman at his gate. He wears the crown, a monarch— Of knaves and stony hearts; But though they're blessed by Senates, None can escape the darts! Though shored by spear and crozier, All know the arrant cheat, And shun the square of pavement Uncertain at his feet! Yea, spare the wretch, each brooding And secret-leaguers' chief, And make no pistol-target Of stars upon the thief. The knell of God strikes seldom But in the aptest hour; And when the life is sweetest, The worm will feel His power!
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