O BLINDED readers of the scroll of time,
Think ye that freedom yields her hand to crime?
Or the fair whiteness of her virginal bud
Of heavenly hope, would desecrate with blood?
Her eyes are chastened lightnings, and the fire,
Of her divinely purified desire
Burns not in ambush by assassins trod,
But on the holiest mountain heights of God!
So, ye that fain would meet her fond embrace,
Purge the base soul, unmask the treacherous face,
Drop bowl or dagger while ye bring her naught
But the grand worship of a selfless thought!
