Of my free spirit’s whiteness; for e’en now
The embodied hideousness of crime doth seem
Before me glaring out. Why, I saw thee,
Thy foot upon an aged warrior’s breast,
Trampling out nature’s last convulsive heavings.
And thou, thy sword—O valiant chief!—is yet
Red from the noble stroke which pierced at once
A mother and the babe, whose little life
Was from her bosom drawn!—Immortal deeds
For bards to hymn!