IX.

The Southern sky was dun with cloud; And looming lurid o'er its edge The brows of awful forms were bowed, That forged in flame the fateful wedge Which waited in the angry shroud

The banner of the storm unfurled, And all the powers of death arrayed In black battalions, to be hurled Down through the rack—a blazing blade— To cleave the realm, and shake the world!

The North was full of nameless dread; Wild portents flamed from out the pole; Old scars on Freedom's bosom bled, And sick at heart and vexed of soul She tossed in fever on her bed!

Pale Commerce hid her face and whined; The arms of Toil were paralyzed; The wise were of divided mind, And those who counselled and advised Were sightless leaders of the blind.

Men lost their faith in good and great; No captain sprang, or prophet bard, To win their trust, and save the state From the wild storm that, like a pard, On quivering haunches lay in wait!

The loyal only were not brave; E'en peace became a cringing dog; The patriot paltered like a knave, And partisan anti demagogue Quarrelled o'er Freedom's waiting grave.