Beechenbrook Part 7

The arm that wore the s.h.i.+eld, strip bare; The hand that held the martial rein, And hurled the spear on many a plain-- Stretch--till they clasp the shackles there!

III.

The foot that once could crush the crown, Must drag the fetters, till it bleed Beneath their weight:--thou dost not need It now, to tread the tyrant down.

IV.

Thou thought'st him vanquish'd--boastful trust!

--His lance, in twain--his sword, a wreck-- But with his heel upon thy neck, He holds _thee_ prostrate in the dust!

V.

Bend though thou must, beneath his will, Let not one abject moan have place; But with majestic, silent grace, Maintain thy regal bearing still.

VI.

Look back through all thy storied past, And sit erect in conscious pride:-- No grander heroes ever died-- No sterner, battled to the last!

VII.

Weep, if thou wilt, with proud, sad mein, Thy blasted hopes--thy peace undone,-- Yet brave, live on,--nor seek to shun Thy fate, like Egypt's conquer'd Queen.

VIII.

Though forced a captive's place to fill, In the triumphal train,--yet there, Superbly, like Zen.o.bia, wear Thy chains,--_Virginia Victrix_ still!