Classic Poem

The council of the brave are met,
Soon will their swords with blood be wet,
The blood of tyranny and pride,
On—on—this is not regicide!

He thinks his sand is not outrun,
But he shall start to find it done;
He mocketh at our bold emprize,
Though freedom looks him in the eyes.

What claim have they on further breath
For momentary league with death,
Who dare to make the human heart
Throb with the fears themselves impart?

And he hath done this shameless deed,
Thus answer'd in a nation's need;
He link'd our fetters to his crown
So tight, they burst, and flung him down.

When kings demand with haughtiest aims
Beyond their weight of kingly claims,
With worthy scorn and anger stirr'd,
We fill the balance with the sword!

Slaves, each and all, our necks have borne
His yoke with grief that swallow'd scorn
Till, galling deeper, it began
To make all men, and each a man!

We seek a soil for hope to thrive—
But where is hope, if tyrants live?
We burn to draw a bolder breath,
By quenching his in forceful death!