In the Hour of Grief

I.

Once more thy head is bowed in dreadful shame,
     O Liberty! Thy cheeks are wet with tears!
Once more the far-off skeptic speaks thy name
     And on his fellows’ faces notes the sneers!
     Out from the darkness of the drear, dead years
The foul old crimson claw again is thrust,
     Once more the voice of Doubt assails our ears,
Once more we press our faces in the dust[,]
But in our hearts, thank God, there still is trust.

II.

O Freedom, though they strike thee down, thy head
     Shall still be raised, and still thy voice shall guide!
And thou shalt even grasp and crush the red,
     Smeared hand whose ugly stain is on thy side!
     Though sobs are heard where yesterday the pride
Of honor and of strength had ample tongue,
     Though doubters may be eager to deride,
Still hope, thank God, is ours—thank God the young,
Brave heart beats on that is so sadly wrung!