To veil the blood our hands have spilt,
And seek by words of softening chime,
To lend blest virtue's charm to guilt.
Oh, no! in vain the world may give
The fearful deed a gentle name—
I slew my friend, and now I live
To feel perdition's glowing flame.
His missile cut the upward air—
Mine, winged with murder won its way,
Straight to his manly bosom,—there