IN trumpet-toned accents I heard
A voice in a vision to cry;—
'By threat of no tyrant deterred,
We rear up our banner on high.

'No longer, tho' feeble and poor,
We'll wear out our days in the dust,
Our freedom we're sworn to procure,
And have it or perish we must.

'Far better we rush to the grave,
The bed of each mortal at last,
Than eat the vile bread of the slave—
Than pine as we've pined in the past.

'The life of the hero's a boon,
A blossom the meanest must prize;
The life of the faint-hearted loon,
A weed that the noble despise.

'Then up,' cried the voice, and I thought,
While loud the deep accents yet rang,
A turbann'd oppressor was brought,
To think of his deeds with a pang.

1878.