  Vae Victis! Nay, what Triumph rings Exultant with that haughty word? To grace its clarion, tempering brings No music of a nobler chord? Twice trophied, not what gentler strain? Which, wiped no blot its honor caught, Would, rank at heart, with flustered brain, Still foul the cheer kind victory brought? In the bugle’s drown the choral song, What strange, deep notes ’twould auguring breathe? Deck fresh the brow of fated Strong With teemy bud of baser wreath? For, lo, it was a gallant fight! And, tho’ ravening Nature still stood up, Pledged fierce, in her own drops, the bleeding Right, Nay, bade her drain the chaliced Cup. Tho’ unlineal stripped the lineal True, Set low the faith, acclaimed the doubt, What witness here but purging threw Its passioned gage, to bear it out, That worse than steel or murd’rous flare Of gaping mouth, whose sudden gust Flicks out the flame of little life, it were to bear The yoke that galls with rude Unjust; That they slay not half, who merely kill, Nor holds within the execution of the sword Yon cunning stab which numbs the will, In its drowse lays on the bondsman’s cord; That sweet blood spilt in noble cause, Somehow, sustaining blends with Heaven’s dew, So partner’d, for fresh come-up grows, Past choke of False, the larger True; No harvest else come worth its seed, Which holds not fast, gives o’er to taunt This word—not what is bred, but what we breed Foregathered hoard, but what we plant, Alone shall lift mid prides that sink, To foison come, ’mid thorny steeps of mazy ways, Where ruthless heats far-fated drink, Make nought the sap of lustful days; So pledged alone endure, enlarge, Make good, withal, some vicared trust, Undue to hope yon scruteless charge Whose brief is Time and riddling Dust; So nurtured, rear, while Right unfolds, Athwart rude stretch of the perplexing Plan’s, Some keep, some faith, that sheltering holds, Sets God twice forth, thro’ will of Man’s. Oh, yes, it was a gallant fight, In free men’s gashes writ on Story’s page, Nor, till her sad tome close in utter night, And Destiny muse Time’s vanished stage. Shall hours blank its annaled score, But bear it down t’ward yet to-comes, At echoed gleam, set forth yon lore, Which word, nor thought, nor heart-heave sums— Yon love of Free, whose far-off fount, Which, say it flow through beast and slave, Withal, bids man stand up, assert, account Exalt the gift—some Self, some Soul it gracious gave; Yon voice of Just, whose auguring sooth Wide-visioned bounds these Nears and Fars, While infinite Patience, she, the Truth, Revealed, fulfills her myriad Stars. |
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