'Twas dying, the long dread clang,—
But, or ever the blesséd ray
Of peace could brighten to-day,
Murder stood by the way,—
Treason struck home his fang!
One throb—and, without a pang,
That pure soul passed away.
Idle, in this our blindness,
To marvel we cannot see
Wherefore such things should be,
Or to question Infinite Kindness
Of this or of that Decree,
Or to fear lest Nature bungle,
That in certain ways she errs:
The cobra in the jungle,
The crotalus in the sod,
Evil and good are hers;—
Murderers and torturers!
Ye, too, were made by God.
All slowly heaven is nighing,
Needs that offence must come;
Ever the Old Wrong dying
Will sting, in the death-coil lying,
And hiss till its fork be dumb.
But dare deny no further,
Black-hearted, brazen-cheeked!
Ye on whose lips yon murther
These fifty moons hath reeked,—
From the wretched scenic dunce,
Long a-hungered to rouse
A Nation's heart for the nonce,—
(Hugging his hell, so that once
He might yet bring down the house!)—
From the commons, gross and simple,
Of a blind and bloody land,
(Long fed on venomous lies!)—
To the horrid heart and hand
That sumless murder dyes,—
The hand that drew the wimple
Over those cruel eyes.
Pass on,—your deeds are done,
Forever sets your sun;
Vainly ye lived or died,
'Gainst Freedom and the Laws,—
And your memory and your cause
Shall haunt o'er the trophied tide
Like some Pirate Caravel floating
Dreadful, adrift—whose crew
From her yard-arms dangle rotting,—
The old Horror of the blue.
Avoid ye,—let the morrow
Sentence or mercy see.
Pass to your place: our sorrow
Is all too dark to borrow
One shade from such as ye.