Beneath his vest a dagger, which but waits
Till the heart bounds with joy, to still its beatings?
That which our nature’s instinct doth recoil from,
And our blood curdle at—ay, yours and mine—
A murderer! Heard ye? Shall that name with ours
Go down to after days? O friends! a cause
Like that for which we rise, hath made bright names
Of th’ elder time as rallying-words to men—
Sounds full of might and immortality!
And shall not ours be such?