Ii

Those crowns, not cold from death sweat on the brow, At sight of apparitions with fixed stare, But warm with summer, conjuring beauties rare-- Wilt not. They are dewed daily by your vow, Daughters of sires who, to no thrall, would bow! Which, at the alter with raised hands, ye swear, Cheering the blessed spirits, gathered there, That, like their Mothers, are their daughters now.

True women--and therefore, craft foilers clever-- With sons for your hearts utterance, ye sue Not, but like Barry to the British crew, Ye cry out: "What! we strike our colors? Never! Fie, shot! fie, Gold! these colors, since they drew Their first star-breath, are God's, and God's forever."

Ye know the Leopard changes not his spots. The Prince of Peace, who spake eternal truth, Confirmed this fact of Nature. He, with ruth Omniscient, saw afar, the scarlet clots Of English nature, in profidious plots For conquest, mangling not alone brave youth With teeth set, but old age without a tooth, And Mothers, clutching up their bleeding tots.

Oh, yea, this beast makes his own desert, still; And Ireland, India and Egypt show His spots so spread, he is one ghastly glow; Aye, as your sires saw him from Bunker Hill. Oh, vain, gold rubs the skin and press shouts, "Lo! It has not now one spot of threatening ill."