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Rise like accusing weird spirits to God.

Weep for him—weep for him—-deep is the tragedy—

Angels themselves now might doubt of God's truth;

Souls from their bloody graves, shuddering, rise to see

How he avenges their lost, murdered youth.

Tone, and Fitzgerald, and the pale-brow'd enthusiast—

He whose heart broke, but shrank not from the strife;

Davis, the latest loved—he who in glory passed,

Kindling Hope's lamp with the chrism of life.

Well may they wail for him—power and might were his—

Loved as no mortal was loved in the land—

What has he sold them for? Sorrow and shame it is,

Fair words and false from a recreant band.

Time's shade was on him; what matter? we loved him yet;

Aye, would have torn the veins with our teeth,

Made him a bath of our young blood to pay the debt—

Purchased his life, tho' we brough it by death.

Pray for him—pray: an archangel has fallen low;

There's a throne less in Heaven, there is sorrow on earth.

Weep, angels—laugh, demons! When his hand could strike the blow,