To her alone let the appeal be made.
Heroes, or merely tools of huckstering Trade,
Men brave, though fallible, or sordid brutes,
Let all be heard. Since each to each imputes
Unmeasured baseness, somewhere the black stain
Must surely rest. The dead speak not, the slain
Have not a voice, save such as that which spoke
From ABEL's blood. Green laurels, or the stroke
Of shame's swift scourge? There's the alternative
Before the lifted eyes of those who live.