On Sitting Down to Read Sinclair Once Again

O knife-tongued Satire with bitter wit!

Flense the rust of memory with thine hate

Toward the chained mind. A palpable hit

Scored against those who wield the sword of state,

Lies within those fading pages. What fate

Befalls us now, who in quiet rooms sit

And fret upon the close and choking fit

We let the tailors measure? How abate

Their fervor now? Whilst we in silence gape

With horror yet unlifted arms, freedom

Falls, enduring daily a savage rape

In small degrees. Ere all hope is undone,

Rather ashes than dust! Thus we oppose

Tyranny, through the red hawk's snarling prose.