27.12.2010, 17:12
CHARLOTTE CORDAY,
A Memoir of a Hand.
A child's small hand, lost in her father's—twined
In springtide round the stems of earliest flowers,
\Vhich she had found in fields and orchard-bowers,
With earnest eyes, that best deserve to find ;
A woman's hand—whose pulses ever glow'd
With eager purpose, running bolder blood
Than childhood's ; though the loving teardrops flow'd
Whene'er she clasped in dreams her country's good :
An armbd hand ! fresh from the stricken throat
Of that fierce homicide, whose rage of heart
Woke counter-rage, that came and saw and smote :
Ah ! maiden's hand ! blood-stain'd at last ! thou art
The very symbol of the unnatural time
When Norman Charlotte dared her noble crime.
A Memoir of a Hand.
A child's small hand, lost in her father's—twined
In springtide round the stems of earliest flowers,
\Vhich she had found in fields and orchard-bowers,
With earnest eyes, that best deserve to find ;
A woman's hand—whose pulses ever glow'd
With eager purpose, running bolder blood
Than childhood's ; though the loving teardrops flow'd
Whene'er she clasped in dreams her country's good :
An armbd hand ! fresh from the stricken throat
Of that fierce homicide, whose rage of heart
Woke counter-rage, that came and saw and smote :
Ah ! maiden's hand ! blood-stain'd at last ! thou art
The very symbol of the unnatural time
When Norman Charlotte dared her noble crime.