Hopeless, with memory such as miscreants win.
One sacred head he smote, encircled in
A people’s arms; and shook, with storms allied,
The pillars of the world from side to side.”...
E’en so the Angel’s record must begin.
Show me not anguish since that traitor-stroke
Rang o’er the brunt of war; yet child, O child!
When later days bring bitter thoughts, recall,
No maledictions on his name I spoke,
Catching lost cues; but asked, well-reconciled,