I.

Ay, to the doom--the scaffold and the chain,-- To all your cruel tortures, bear them on, Ye foul and coward Hangmen;--but in vain!-- Ye cannot touch the glory they have won-- And win--thus yielding up the martyr's breath For freedom!--Theirs is a triumphant death!-- A sacred pledge from Nature, that her womb Still keeps some sacred fires;--that yet shall burst, Even from the reeking ravage of their doom, As glorious--ay, more glorious--than the first! Exult, shout, triumph! Wretches, do your worst! 'Tis for a season only! There shall come An hour when ye shall feel yourselves accurst; When the dread vengeance of a century Shall reap its harvest in a single day; And ye shall howl in horror;--and, to die, Shall be escape and refuge! Ye may slay; But to be cruel and brutal, does not make Ye conquerors; and the vulture yet shall prey On living hearts; and vengeance fiercely slake The unappeasable appetite ye wake, In the hot blood of victims, that have been, Most eager, binding freemen to the stake,-- Most greedy, in the orgies of this sin!