His fierce blood burns, his mad heart yearns,
His brow the storm resembles.

He breathes oppressed, with laboring breast--
His weeds and he rejected!
His flowers, oh, see!--shall they and he
Lie here at thy door neglected?

* * * * *

[Illustration: DEATH ON THE BARRICADE ALFRED RETHEL]

THE DEAD TO THE LIVING[45] (July, 1848)

The bullet in the marble breast, the gash upon the brow,
You raised us on the bloody planks with wild and wrathful vow!
High in the air you lifted us, that every writhe of pain
Might be an endless curse to _him_, at whose word we were slain;
That he might see us in the gloom, or in the daylight's shine,
Whether he turns his Bible's leaf, or quaffs his foaming wine;
That the dread memory on his soul should evermore be burned,
A wasting and destroying flame within its gloom inurned;
That every mouth with pain convulsed, and every gory wound,
Be round him in the terror-hour, when his last bell shall sound;
That every sob above us heard smite shuddering on his ear;
That each pale hand be clenched to strike, despite his dying fear--
Whether his sinking head still wear its mockery of a crown,
Or he should lay it, bound, dethroned, on bloody scaffold down!

Thus, with the bullet in the breast, the gash upon the brow,
You laid us at the altar's foot, with deep and solemn vow!
"Come down!" ye cried--he trembling came--even to our bloody bed;
"Uncover!" and 'twas tamely done!--(like a mean puppet led,
Sank he whose life had been a farce, with fear unwonted shaken).
Meanwhile his army fled the field, which, dying, we had taken!
Loudly in "_Jesus, thou my trust_!" the anthem'd voices peal;
Why did the victor-crowds forget the sterner trust of steel?

That morning followed on the night when we together fell,
And when ye made our burial, there was triumph in the knell!
Though crushed behind the barricades, and scarred in every limb,
The pride of conscious Victory lay on our foreheads grim!
We thought: the price is dearly paid, but the treasures _must_ be true,
And rested calmly in the graves we swore to fill for you!

Alas! for you--we were deceived! Four moons have scarcely run,
Since cowardly you've forfeited what we so bravely won!
Squandered and cast to every wind the gain our death had brought!
Aye, all, we know--each word and deed our spirit-ears have caught!
Like waves came thun