Of shame like this takes blood to wash it off,
And thus it shall be cancell’d! Call on me,
When the stern moment of revenge is nigh.
Pro. I call upon thee now! The land’s high soul
Is roused, and moving onward, like a breeze
Or a swift sunbeam, kindling nature’s hues
To deeper life before it. In his chains,
The peasant dreams of freedom!—Ay, ’tis thus
Oppression fans th’ imperishable flame
With most unconscious hands. No praise be hers