O’er the fulfillment of thy baleful plan,
Like Satan’s triumph, at the fall of man?
How stood’st thou then, thy foot on Freedom planting,
And pointing to the lurid heaven afar,
Whence all could see through the south window’s slanting,
Crimson as blood, the beams of the Lone star:
The Fates are just; they give us but our own;
Nemesis ripens what our hands have sown.
There is an eastern story, not unknown,
Doubtless to thee, of one whose magic skill,