Classic Poem

A child's small hand, lost in her father's — twined
In springtide round the stems of earliest flowers,
Which she had found in fields and orchard-bowers,
With earnest eyes, that best deserve to find;
A woman's hand — whose pulses ever glow'd
With eager purpose, running bolder blood
Than childhood's; though the loving teardrops flow'd
Whene'er she clasped in dreams her country's good:
An armed hand! fresh from the stricken throat
Of that fierce homicide, whose rage of heart
Woke counter-rage, that came and saw and smote;
Ah! maiden's hand! blood-stain'd at last! thou art
The very symbol of the unnatural time
When Norman Charlotte dared her noble crime.