To rain curses on a land, and bid them grow forevermore—
Woe art thou, O Baltimore!
Then the sacred spirit, fading, left upon the floor a shading,
As of one with arms uplifted, from a distance bending o'er;
And the vail of night grew thicker, and the death-watch beat the quicker
For a death within a death, and sadder than the death before!
And a whispering of woe was heard upon Potomac's shore—
Hear it not, O Baltimore!
And the Eagle, never dying, still is trying, still is trying,
With its wings upon the map to hide a city with its gore;