Passed! passed! the glad thousands march safe through the tide

(Hark, despots! and hear the wild knell of your pride

Ringing weird-like and wild-pealing up from the side

Of the calm flowing River.)

'Neath a blow swift and mighty, the tyrant shall

fall!

Vain! vain! to his God swells the desolate call!

For his grave has been hollowed and woven his

pall,

As they passed o'er the River.

A Poem that needs no Dedication.

WHAT! ye hold yourselves as freemen? Tyrants love just such as ye!

Go! abate your lofty manner! Write upon the State's old banner, "A furore Normanorum,

Libera nos, O Domine!"

Sink before the Federal altar,

Each one, low on bended knee; Pray, with lips that sob and falter, This prayer from a coward's Psalter: "A furore Normanorum,

Libera nos, O Domine!"

But ye hold that quick repentance
In the Northern mind will be;
This repentance comes no sooner
Than the robber's did, at Luna.

"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"

He repented him; the Bishop

Gave him absolution free-
Poured upon him sacred chrism
In the pomp of his baptism.
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"

He repented; then he sickened
Was he pining for the sea?
In extremis he was shriven.
The viaticum was given:

"A furore Normanorum,

Libera nos, O Domine!"

Then the old cathedral's choir
Took the plaintive minor key,

With the host upraised before him, Down the marble aisle they bore him: "A furore Normanorum,

Libera nos, O Domine!"

While the Bishop and the Abbot,
All the monks of high degree—
Chanting praise to the Madonna,
Came to do him Christian honor.
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"

Now the Miserere's cadence

Takes the voices of the sea;
As the music-billows quiver
See the dead freebooter shiver!
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"

Is it that those intonations

Thrill him thus, from head to knee? Lo! his cerements burst asunder! 'Tis a sight of fear and wonder! "A furore Normanorum,

Libera nos, O Domine!"

Fierce he stands before the Bishop-
Dark as shape of Destinie!
Hark! a shriek ascends appalling!

Down the prelate goes-dead-falling! "A furore Normanorum,

Libera nos, O Domine!"

HASTING lives! he was but feigning!
What! Repentant? Never he!
Down he smites the priests and friars,
And the city lights with fires.

"A furore Normanorum,

Libera nos, O Domine!"

Ah! the children and the maidens, 'Tis in vain they strive to flee! Where the white-haired priests lie bleeding Is no place for tearful pleading, "A furore Normanorum,

Libera nos, O Domine!"

Louder swells the frightful tumult―
Pallid death holds revelrie!
Dies the organ's mighty clamor
By the Norseman's iron hammer!
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"

So they thought that he'd repented!
Had they nailed him to a tree,
He had not deserved their pity,

And they

had not lost their city.

"A furore Normanorum,

Libera nos,

O Domine!"

For the moral in this story,

Which is plain as truth can be: If we trust the North's relenting, We will shriek, too late repenting, "A furore Normanorum,

Libera nos, O Domine!"