Lines

On his brow he wore a helmet

Decked with strange and cruel art;

Every jewel was a life-drop

Wrung from some poor broken heart.

Though her cheek was pale and anxious,

Yet, with look and brow sublime,

By the pale and trembling Future

Stood the Crisis of our time.

And from many a throbbing bosom

Came the words in fear and gloom,

Tell us, Oh! thou coming Crisis,

What shall be our country’s doom?

Shall the wings of dark destruction

Brood and hover o’er our land,

Till we trace the steps of ruin

By their blight, from strand to strand?