Sonnet Viii. To Mercy

Not always should the tear's ambrosial dew Roll its soft anguish down thy furrowed cheek! Not always heaven-breathed tones of suppliance meek Beseem thee, Mercy! Yon dark Scowler view, Who with proud words of dear-loved Freedom came-- More blasting than the mildew from the south! And kissed his country with Iscariot mouth; (Ah! foul apostate from his Father's fame!) Then fixed her on the cross of deep distress, And at safe distance marks the thirsty lance Pierce her big side! But oh! if some strange trance The eye-lids of thy stern-browed Sister press, Seize, Mercy! thou more terrible the brand, And hurl her thunderbolts with fiercer hand!