Frank Pixley, you, who kiss the hand
    That strove to cut the country's throat,
    Cannot forgive the hands that smote
  Applauding in a distant land,—

  Applauding carelessly, as one
    The weaker willing to befriend
    Until the quarrel's at an end,
  Then learn by whom it was begun.

  When North was pitted against South
    Non-combatants on either side
    In calculating fury vied,
  And fought their foes by word of mouth.

  That devil's-camisade you led
    With formidable feats of tongue.
    Upon the battle's rear you hung—
  With Samson's weapon slew the dead!

  So hot the ardor of your soul
    That every fierce civilian came,
    His torch to kindle at your name,
  Or have you blow his cooling coal.

  Men prematurely left their beds
    And sought the gelid bath—so great
    The heat and splendor of your hate
  Of Englishmen and "Copperheads."

  King Liar of deceitful men,
    For imposition doubly armed!
    The patriots whom your speaking charmed
  You stung to madness with your pen.

  There was a certain journal here,
    Its English owner growing rich—
    Your hand the treason wrote for which
  A mob cut short its curst career.

  If, Pixley, you had not the brain
    To know the true from false, or you
    To Truth had courage to be true,
  And loyal to her perfect reign;

  If you had not your powers arrayed
    To serve the wrong by tricksy speech,
    Nor pushed yourself within the reach
  Of retribution's accolade,

  I had not had the will to go
    Outside the olive-bordered path
    Of peace to cut the birch of wrath,
  And strip your body for the blow.

  Behold how dark the war-clouds rise
    About the mother of our race!
    The lightnings gild her tranquil face
  And glitter in her patient eyes.

  Her children throng the hither flood
    And lean intent above the beach.
    Their beating hearts inhibit speech
  With stifling tides of English blood.

  "Their skies, but not their hearts, they change
    Who go in ships across the sea"—
    Through all centuries to be
  The strange new land will still be strange.

  The Island Mother holds in gage
    The souls of sons she never saw;
    Superior to law, the law
  Of sympathetic heritage.

  Forgotten now the foolish reign
    Of wrath which sundered trivial ties.
    A soldier's sabre vainly tries
  To cleave a spiritual chain.

  The iron in our blood affines,
    Though fratricidal hands may spill.
    Shall Hate be throned on Bunker Hill,
  Yet Love abide at Seven Pines?