Not always should the tear's ambrosial dew <br />Roll its soft anguish down thy furrowed cheek! <br />Not always heaven-breathed tones of suppliance meek <br />Beseem thee, Mercy! Yon dark Scowler view, <br />Who with proud words of dear-loved Freedom came-- <br />More blasting than the mildew from the south! <br />And kissed his country with Iscariot mouth; <br />(Ah! foul apostate from his Father's fame!) <br />Then fixed her on the cross of deep distress, <br />And at safe distance marks the thirsty lance <br />Pierce her big side! But oh! if some strange trance <br />The eye-lids of thy stern-browed Sister press, <br />Seize, Mercy! thou more terrible the brand, <br />And hurl her thunderbolts with fiercer hand!<br /><br />Samuel Taylor Coleridge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-viii-to-mercy/
