—Ay, scorn me not! 'twas for his life—I knelt
E'en at the viceroy's feet, and he put on
That heartless laugh of cold malignity
We know so well, and spurn'd me.— But the stain
Of shame like this, takes blood to wash it off,
And thus it shall be cancell'd!—Call on me,
When the stern moment of revenge is nigh.
Pro. I call upon thee now! The land's high soul
Is roused, and moving onward, like a breeze
Or a swift sunbeam, kindling nature's hues
To deeper life before it. In his chains,
The peasant dreams of freedom!—ay, 'tis thus
Oppression fans th' imperishable flame
With most unconscious hands.—No praise be her's
For what she blindly works!—When slavery's cup
O'erflows its bounds, the creeping poison, meant
To dull our senses, thro' each burning vein
Pours fever, lending a delirious strength
To burst man's fetters—and they shall be burst!
I have hoped, when hope seemed frenzy; but a power
Abides in human will, when bent with strong
Unswerving energy on one great aim,
To make and rule its fortunes!—I have been
A wanderer in the fulness of my years,
A restless pilgrim of the earth and seas,
Gathering the generous thoughts of other lands,
To aid our holy cause. And aid is near:
But we must give the signal. Now, before
The majesty of yon pure heaven, whose eye
Is on our hearts, whose righteous arm befriends
D 2
