Swollen torrent, dark and deep,
Rushing down the rocky steep,--
Tempest-driven cloud on high,
Scudding wildly through the sky,--
Dread volcano, muttering death
From red lips with burning breath,--
Scarce shall these in type reveal
What the nobler spirits feel
When, in silence stern and strong,
They wrestle with the Sense of Wrong.

Ha! -- when insult hisses near,
Or scorn drops hemlock on the ear,
Or fraud has triumph'd over right,
Or gentleness is mock'd by might,--
Or only,--worth is seen unprized,
Or only,-- honour goes despised,
Then, in a whirlwind chafes along
The soul beneath a Sense of Wrong!

Yes, Patriot of a race downtrod;
Yes, Martyr for a slander'd God;
Yes, Man of large and liberal mind
Wroth with the meanness of mankind;
Yes, all who love the lovely still
And hate the vile with right good will,--
Your hearts can echo to my song,
And ache beneath the Sense of Wrong!