Classic Poem

There is blood on thy desolate shore,
Thou island of plunder and slaves!
Thy billows are purpled with gore,
And murder has crimsoned thy waves;
The vengeance of nations will come,
And wrath shall be rained on thy head,
And in terror thy voice shall be dumb,
When they ask for their brothers who bled.
Thy hand was not stirred when their life-blood was spilt;
And therefore that hand must partake in the guilt.

Thou art guilty or weak,—and the rod
Should be wrenched from thy palsied hand;
By the pirate thy green fields are trod,
And his steps have polluted thy land;
Unmoved is thy heart and thine eye,
When our dear ones are tortured and slain;
But their blood, with a terrible cry,
Calls on vengeance, and calls not in vain;
If Europe regard not, our land shall awake,
And thy walls and thy turrets shall tremble and shake.

The voice of a world shall be heard,
And thy faith shall be tried by the call;
And that terrible voice shall be feared,
And obeyed,—or the proud one shall fall.
Enough of our life has been shed,
In watching and fighting for thee;
If thy foot linger still, on thy head
The guilt and the vengeance shall be:
We have sworn that the spirit of A LLEN shall lead,
And our wrath shall not rest till we finish the deed.