II.
Ye slaughter,--do ye triumph? Ask your chains,
Ye Sodom-hearted butchers!--turn your eyes,
Where reeks yon bloody scaffold; and the pains,
Ungroaned, of a true martyr, ere he dies,
Attest the damned folly of your crime,
Now at its carnival! His spirit flies,
Unscathed by all your fires, through every clime,
Into the world's wide bosom. Thousands rise,
Prompt at its call, and principled to strike
The tyrants and the tyrannies alike!--
Voices, that doom ye, speak in all your deeds,
And cry to heaven, arm earth, and kindle hell!
A host of freemen, where one martyr bleeds,
Spring from his place of doom, and make his knell
The toscin, to arouse a myriad race,
T'avenge Humanity's wrong, and wipe off man's disgrace!