For what is glory but the blaze of fame?
Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold.
Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n.
Death from sin no power can separate.
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.
Come knit hands, and beat the ground in a light fantastic round