Classic Poem

With fire of Heaven he withers like a leaf.
He killed; we kill, and deem it over now,
Nor see, as once beside a punished thief,
What woe hangs ripe upon a sapless bough.

This futile Brutus struck at Cæsar's life;
He killed a husband and the People's friend.
Our Cæsar has not flesh to feel the knife;
Still Cæsar lives—and this is not the end!

Hark to the human groans from mire and muck
Where still the streams of sunless millions flow!
He missed the tyrant's heart at which he struck,
Nor do we kill the thing that struck the blow!

The pistol ball wounds not the vaporous mark,
Nor can the dagger pick our prison lock!
Strike Night!—you stab some brother in the dark;
And Henry Fourth survives poor Ravaillac!