Sad, most sad, should hands unlicensed
Rudely pluck our opening blossom;
Sad—yea better far to die!
Changing nuptial torch and chamber
For dark homes of slavery.
Ah! my soul within me trembles,
When it shapes the sight of shame,
Swift the chase of lawless murder,
And the swifter chase of flame;
Black the surly smoke upwreathing,