The hand that for my father fought
I honor, as his daughter ought;
But can I clasp it reeking red,
From peasants slaughter’d in their shed?
No! wildly while his virtues gleam,
They make his passions darker seem,
And flash along his spirit high,
Like lightning o’er the midnight sky.
While yet a child,—and children know,
Instinctive taught, the friend and foe,—