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Bursting with wrath, yon angry cloud
Seems to pause in its mid career,
To one gory spot draw near :-
Clenched hands and brows severe ?
What, sateless still! must still the stream
From noble hearts be poured,
On that remorseless horde ?
To latest times abhorred ?
•“0, Liberty! what crimes are committed in thy name!” was the apostrophe of Madame Roland to the statue of Liberty, as she passed it on her way to the guillotine.
But hark what thrilling sounds arise
From yon slow-moving throng; Floating like incense to the skies
In one rich tide of song!
By faith serene, yet strong,
Theirs is no hope folorn,—they wend
Exulting on their way;
Their life-blood ebb away.
In beautiful array,
No fears have they ;—the savage crowd
May scowl on them in vain ;
Unfailing still their strain!
They view the reeking scaffold nigh,
Their blood so soon must stain,-
The foremost of that guiltless throng,
Is stayed at once her breath and song!
Is hushed each tuneful tongue;