First Moloch, horrid king, besmirched in blood, Of Human sacrifice, and parent's tears, Though, for the noise of drums and timbrels loud, Their childrens' cries unheard, that passed through fire, To his grim idol.

Ink is the blood of the printing-press.

Him that yon soars on golden wing, guiding the fiery-wheelèd throne, the Cherub Contemplation.

It were a journey like the path to heaven, To help you find them.

O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp, Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death.

Still paying, still to owe. Eternal woe!

Every cloud has a silver lining.