Quoth the Eagle, “Matamore.”
“Wretch!” he cried, “some fiend hath sent thee, by that mocking voice he lent thee
Conscience-driven accusations rising up at every pore—
Must my master-mind so vaunted, ever hence be spectre haunted—
Must I see that form undaunted, dying still at Matamore?”
Quoth the Eagle, “Evermore.”
“Prophet!” shrieked he, “thing of evil! Here we fear nor God nor Devil!
Wing thee to the House of Hapsburg! Up to Austria’s heaven soar,
Leave no bloody plume as token, of the lies my soul has spoken,