APRIL 9th, 1865.
I.
Unconquered captive!—close thine eye,
And draw the ashen sackcloth o'er,
And in thy speechless woe deplore
The fate that would not let thee die!
II.
The arm that wore the shield, strip bare;
The hand that held the martial rein,
And hurled the spear on many a plain—
Stretch—till they clasp the shackles there!
III.
The foot that once could crush the crown,
Must drag the fetters, till it bleed
Beneath their weight:—thou dost not need
It now, to tread the tyrant down.
IV.
Thou thought'st him vanquish'd—boastful trust!
—His lance, in twain—his sword, a wreck—
But with his heel upon thy neck,
He holds thee prostrate in the dust!