Classic Poem

Though thou no cloud in breezeless heav'n beholdest,
Foreshowing Gentianella! from the clown
Thy bright intensity of blue thou foldest;
And he, assur'd of rain, his sythe lays down.
Hast thou no deeper knowledge? Say, for right
Strove rous'd France vainly? Shall the Muscovite
From Fiume steam for London? Eager, here,
To wreathe with thorn the patriot-martyr's crown,
And vaunt base scorn of hated Liberty,
The feudal horde snuffs coming mischief. Peer,
And squire, (and would-be squire and peer,) agree
To ban the wretch who struggles to be free;
And, grinning, shrug the yet-unknouted shoulders
That may be bared, ere long, to strange beholders.