Classic Poem

This simple cord, by unknown fingers spun,
Holds history in every slender fibre,—
Telling more baseness in one action done,
And of more heroism, than the sun
E'er saw upon the storied tide of Tiber.

A shred from off the halliards of our hope,
Our battle-banner, seldom lowered or baffled!
Did he who twined the fellow to that rope
Behold, in his imaginary scope,
The trembling traitor on his well-earned scaffold?

He should have seen, methinks, the dance of death,
The traitor's dance in this rebellious season,
While the gaunt wizards on the Southern heath,
Like the foul hags encountered by Macbeth,
With hell-born charm and chant are brewing treason.

Fierce maledictions, breathed with desperate might
By trodden nations, longing to be freemen,
Shall fall upon them with the withering blight
Of leprous pestilence that walks at night.
Till their own hearts shall curse their reigning demon.