Then hail to thee, hail to thee, Famine! 
Hail to thee, Empress of Earth! 
When thou risest, dividing possessions;
When thou risest, uprooting oppressions, 55
In the pride of thy ghastly mirth;
Over palaces, temples, and graves,
We will rush as thy minister-slaves,
Trampling behind in thy train,
Till all be made level again! 60

MAMMON: 
I hear a crackling of the giant bones
Of the dread image, and in the black pits
Which once were eyes, I see two livid flames. 
These prodigies are oracular, and show
The presence of the unseen Deity. 65
Mighty events are hastening to their doom!

SWELLFOOT: 
I only hear the lean and mutinous Swine
Grunting about the temple.

DAKRY: 
In a crisis
Of such exceeding delicacy, I think
We ought to put her Majesty, the QUEEN, 70
Upon her trial without delay.

MAMMON: 
THE BAG
Is here.

PURGANAX: 
I have rehearsed the entire scene
With an ox-bladder and some ditchwater,
On Lady P—­; it cannot fail.
[TAKING UP THE BAG.]
Your Majesty
[TO SWELLFOOT.]
In such a filthy business had better 75
Stand on one side, lest it should sprinkle you. 
A spot or two on me would do no harm,
Nay, it might hide the blood, which the sad Genius
Of the Green Isle has fixed, as by a spell,
Upon my brow—­which would stain all its seas, 80
But which those seas could never wash away!

IONA TAURINA: 
My Lord, I am ready—­nay, I am impatient
To undergo the test.
[A GRACEFUL FIGURE IN A SEMI-TRANSPARENT VEIL PASSES UNNOTICED THROUGH
THE TEMPLE; THE WORD “LIBERTY” IS SEEN THROUGH THE VEIL, AS IF IT WERE
WRITTEN IN FIRE UPON ITS FOREHEAD.  ITS WORDS ARE ALMOST DROWNED IN THE
FURIOUS GRUNTING OF THE PIGS, AND THE BUSINESS OF THE TRIAL.  SHE
KNEELS ON THE STEPS OF THE ALTAR, AND SPEAKS IN TONES AT FIRST FAINT
AND LOW, BUT WHICH EVER BECOME LOUDER AND LOUDER.]
Mighty Empress!  Death’s white wife! 
Ghastly mother-in-law of Life! 85
By the God who made thee such,
By the magic of thy touch,
By the starving and the cramming
Of fasts and feasts! by thy dread self, O Famine! 
I charge thee! when thou wake the multitude, 90
Thou lead them not upon the paths of blood. 
The earth did never mean her foison
For those who crown life’s cup with poison
Of fanatic rage and meaningless revenge—­
But for those radiant spirits, who are still 95
The standard-bearers in the van of Change. 
Be they th’ appointed stewards, to fill
The lap of Pain, and Toil, and Age!—­
Remit, O Queen! thy accustomed rage! 
Be what thou art not!  In voice faint and low 100
FREEDOM calls “Famine",—­her eternal foe,
To brief alliance, hollow truce.—­Rise now!