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THE OLD MAN'S BLESSING.
To thy young heart, thy hot revenge—Kneel down, and swear thou wilt avenge.
May thy hand be fierce as Até's,Fighting for our old Penates;May thy glance be lightning flashes,May thy words he thunder crashes,May that earnest, haughty frown,Like weapon, strike the foeman down.May thy smile of scorn beBlasting as the Upas tree;Boldly like Olympian God,Hurl the tyrants from our sod,Let their wail be Ichabod!
Be to them destruction glooming—Be to them a vengeance looming,Hair-suspended o'er their race,Like the sword of Damoclés,Let thy daring right hand free us,Like that son of old Ægeus,Who purged his land for evermoreFrom the blood-stained Minotaur.Fear not death, but fear dishonour;Yield thy country all but honour.What more fitting warrior's shroudThan the foeman's standard proud?Heed ye not their glozing words;Fear ye not their myriad swords;Never make ye peace with themTill ye chant their requiem.Ha! I hear thy heart's pulsation.Throbbing vengeance for our nation;Ha! I see thy dark eyes shineWith a fury leonine—Burning brow and clenchéd hand—Quivering lip and naked brand—Arise! arise! my patriot son,By hearts like thine is Freedom won!
