I.
Ay, to the doom--the scaffold and the chain,--
To all your cruel tortures, bear them on,
Ye foul and coward Hangmen;--but in vain!--
Ye cannot touch the glory they have won--
And win--thus yielding up the martyr's breath
For freedom!--Theirs is a triumphant death!--
A sacred pledge from Nature, that her womb
Still keeps some sacred fires;--that yet shall burst,
Even from the reeking ravage of their doom,
As glorious--ay, more glorious--than the first!
Exult, shout, triumph! Wretches, do your worst!
'Tis for a season only! There shall come
An hour when ye shall feel yourselves accurst;
When the dread vengeance of a century
Shall reap its harvest in a single day;
And ye shall howl in horror;--and, to die,
Shall be escape and refuge! Ye may slay;
But to be cruel and brutal, does not make
Ye conquerors; and the vulture yet shall prey
On living hearts; and vengeance fiercely slake
The unappeasable appetite ye wake,
In the hot blood of victims, that have been,
Most eager, binding freemen to the stake,--
Most greedy, in the orgies of this sin!