The Great Republic bred her free-born sons
To smother conscience in the coward’s hush,
And had to have a freedom-champion’s
Blood sprinkled in her face to make her blush.
One Will became a passion to avenge
Her shame—a fury consecrate and weird,
As if the old religion of Stonehenge
Amid our weakling worships reappeared.
It was a drawn sword of Jehovah’s wrath,