Page:The Statues in the Block and Other Poems (1881).djvu/113

Rh O, cry of the weak, as the hot blood calls From the burning wound, and the stricken falls With his face in the dust; and the strong one stands, With scornful lips and ensanguined hands; O, blood of the weak, unbought, unpriced, Thy smoke is a piteous prayer to Christ!

They stand on the brink of the cliff—they bend To the dead in their chains ; then rise, and send To the murdering muzzles defiant eyes.

"Make ready! Fire!" The smoke-clouds rise: They are still on the face of the cliff—they bend Once more to the dead—they whisper a word To the hearts in the dust—then, undeterred, They raise their faces, so grimly set, Till the eyes of slayer and doomed have met. O merciful God, let thy pity rain Ere the hideous lightning leaps again!