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THE PROPHECY OF THE DEAD.APRIL, 1861.
S the groaning earth stabbed to its core? Are the seas oozing blood in their bed?Have all troubles of ages before Grown quick in those homes of the dead? The red plagues of yore— Must they to our season be wed?We thought the volcano of War Would belch out its flames in the East;We knew where the winds were ajar With the quarrel of soldier and priest; We shuddered—though far— To think how the vultures might feast.
We said, "We have Liberty's smile: Go to! we are safe in the West!"But the plague-spot was on us the while, And the serpent was warm in our breast: We can no more revile— The ox is for sacrifice dressed.
