As monument, the chains you nurse-- As epitaph, your mother's curse!'" * * * * * A thousand hearts are breathing high, And voices shouting "Victory!" Which soon will hush in death; The trumpet clang of joy that speaks, Will soon be drowned in the shrieks Of the wounded's stifling breath, The tyrant's plume in dust lies low-- Th' oppressed has triumphed o'er his foe. But ah! the lull in the furious blast May whisper not of ruin past; It may tell of the tempest hurrying on, To complete the work the blast begun. With the voice of a Syren, it may whisp'ringly tell Of a moment of hope in the deluge of rain; And the shout of the free heart may rapt'rously swell, While the tyrant is gath'ring his power again. Though the balm of the leech may soften the smart, It never can turn the swift barb from its aim; And thus the resolve of the true freeman's heart May not keep back his fall, though it free it from shame. Though the hearts of those heroes all well could accord With freedom's most noble and loftiest word; Their virtuous strength availeth them nought With the power and skill that the tyrant brought. Gray veterans trained in many a field Where the fate of nations with blood was sealed, In Italia's vales--on the shores of the Rhine-- Where the plains of fair France give birth to the vine-- Where the Tagus, the Ebro, go dancing along, Made glad in their course by the Muleteer's song-- All these were poured down in the pride of their might, On the land of Oge, in that terrible fight. Ah! dire was the conflict, and many the slain, Who slept the last sleep on that red battle-plain! The flash of the cannon o'er valley and height Danced like the swift fires of a northern night, Or the quivering glare which leaps forth as a token That the King of the Storm from his cloud-throne has spoken. And oh! to those heroes how welcome the fate Of Sparta's brave sons in Thermopylae's strait; With what ardor of soul they then would have given Their last look at earth for a long glance at heaven! Their lives to their country--their backs to the sod-- Their heart's blood to the sword, and their souls to their God! But alas! although many lie silent and slain, More blest are they far than those clanking the chain, In the hold of the tyrant, debarred from the day;-- And among these sad captives is Vincent Oge! * * * * *