XCII. And would be all or nothing-nor could wait And blood of earth flow on as they have flow'd, Without an ark for wretched man's abode, And ebbs but to reflow!-Renew thy rainbow, Go XCIII. What from this barren being do we reap? Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, (48) Life short, and truth a gem which loves the dee And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest scale Opinion an omnipotence,-whose veil Mantles the earth with darkness, until right And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale Lest their own judgments should become too bri And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have much light. XCIV. And thus they plod in sluggish misery, To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage Within the same arena where they see Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. XCV. I speak not of men's creeds-they rest between The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown The apes of him who humbled once the proud, And shook them from their slumbers on the throne; Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. XCVI. Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be, And Freedom find no champion and no child Such as Columbia saw arise when she Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled? Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild, Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled On infant Washington? Has Earth no more Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such sho XCVII. But France got drunk with blood to vomit crim To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime; Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worstsecond fall. XCVIII. Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind; Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying, The loudest still the tempest leaves behind; Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little worth, But the sap lasts,—and still the seed we find Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North; So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. XCIX. There is a stern round tower of other days, (49) Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown ; What was this tower of strength? within its cave What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid?—A woman's grave. C. But who was she, the lady of the dead, Tomb'd in a palace? Was she chaste and fair? Worthy a king's-or more-a Roman's bed? What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear? What daughter of her beauties was the heir? How lived-how loved-how died she? Was she m So honour'd-and conspicuously there, Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot? CI. Was she as those who love their lords, or they To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar Love from amongst her griefs?—for such the affectio are. |