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Unto like Story—Trouble has enticed me
How Kinsmen fell
Brothers and Sister—who preferred the Glory
And their young will
Bent to the Scaffold, or in Dungeons—chanted
Till God's full time
When they let go the ignominy—smiling
And Shame went still

Unto guessed Crests, my moaning fancy, leads me
Worn fair
By Heads rejected—in the lower country
Of honors there
Such spirit makes her perpetual mention
That I—grown bold
Step martial—at my Crucifixion
As Trumpets—rolled

Feet, small as mine—have marched in Revolution
Firm to the Drum
Hands—not so stout—hoisted them—in witness
When Speech went numb
Let me not shame their sublime deportments
Drilled bright
Beckoning—Etruscan invitation
Toward Light