32
KING JOHN.
I know what sounds are in his ear, when wrathful tempests roll,
When God doth bid his lightnings search, his thunders try the soul,
Above the blast young Arthur's shriek doth make the murderer quake,
As if again his guiltless blood from Rouen's prison spake.
But tho' no red volcano burst to whelm the men of crime,
No vengeful earthquake fiercely yawn to gorge them ere their time,
Tho' Earth for her most guilty sons the festive board doth set,
The wine-cup and the opiate draught,—yet ne'er can Heaven forget.
