"Can it be?" the spectre muttered. "Can it be?" those pale lips uttered;
"Is the blood Columbia treasures spilt upon its native shore?
Is there in the land so cherished, land for whom the great have perished,
Men to shed a brother's blood as tyrant's blood was shed before?
Where are they who murder Peace before the breaking out of war?"
Croaked the Eagle—"Baltimore."
At the word, of sound so mournful, came a frown, half sad, half scornful,
O'er the grand, majestic face where frown had never been before;
And the hands to Heaven uplifted, with an awful pow'r seemed gifted
To plant curses on a head, and hold them there forevermore—