Die, monster, die! That hand of thine hath turned
A nation pale; driven the quick dart of pain
Home to a million hearts; bro’t tears unto
A million eyes; tapped love’s sweet fountain ’til
It overflows; thrilled every fibre of
A mighty land with mingled love and hate;
In friendly guise struck down our honored chief,
And crowned a noble life with martyrdom;
Hath made a nation blush to own her own,
A sire his son; cemented patriot hearts
Into a crusade strong ’gainst Anarchy.
You glory that ’tis done? No creeping thing
On God’s green earth so loathsome is as you.
The law you aimed at has protected you
From dire revenge,—protected you to the last,
Until the earth no more encumbered was
With life so vile as yours. Your deed shall live!
Ah, yes, we grant you that. Live, pointing, aye
To that you represent, foul Anarchy,
’Til on that, too, is turned the electric charge
Of justice. Live, as the long ages roll,
A mighty foil to him whose life you took.
And when at length appreciation sets
Its final seal upon his glorious life
And students of the past shall read thy crime,
Proud are ye that you two will represent
The age? One black as human heart conceives
Or brush can paint, or tongue can tell, accursed,
His fellow convicts cheering at his death;
The other halloed with immortal fame,
Love’s offering to one one [sic] whose noble works
Filled out a brilliant page in history.
Two portraits of the age! But ’round one twines
With loving care our country’s flag; and ’neath
Its folds, forever buried in disgrace,
Conceal the other one, and blush that he
Has ever lived in form of mortal man.
