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A poem which needs no Dedication.

by James Barron hope.
I.
     What! you hold yourselves as freemen?
Tyrants love just such as ye!
     Go! abate your lofty manner!
Write upon the State's old banner,
     “A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!”

II.
     Sink before the Federal altars,
Each one, low, on bended knee;
     Pray, with lips that sob and falter,
This prayer from a coward's Psalter:
     “A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!”

III.
     But you hold that quick repentance
In the Northern mind will be; [146]
     This repentance comes no sooner
Than the robber's did at Luna.1
     “A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!”

IV.
     He repented him; the Bishop
Gave him absolution free--
     Poured upon him sacred chrism
In the pomp of his baptism.
     “A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!”

V.
     He repented; then, he sickened--
Was he pining for the sea?
     In extremis he was shriven,
The Viaticum was given:
     “A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!”

VI.
     Then, the old cathedral's choir
Took the plaintive minor key,
     With the Host upraised before him,
Down the marble aisle they bore him.
     “A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!”

VII,
     And the Bishop, and the Abbot,
And the monks of high degree,
     Chanting praise to the Madonna,
Came to do him Christian honor.
     “A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!”

VIII,
     Now, the Miserere's cadence
Takes the voices of the sea;--
     As the music-billows quiver,
See the dead freebooter shiver!
     “A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!”

IX.
     Is it that those intonations
Thrill him thus from head to knee?
     So! his cerements burst asunder!
'Tis a sight of fear and wonder!
     “A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!”

X.
     Fierce he stands before the Bishop--
Dark as shape of Destinie!
     Hark! a shriek ascends, appalling!
Down the prelate goes, dead — falling;
     “A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!”

XI.
     Hasting lives! He was but feigning!
What! Repentant! Never he!
     Down he smites the priests and friars,
And the city lights with fires.
     “A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!”

XII.
     Ah! the children and the maidens,
'Tis in vain they strive to flee!
     Where the white-haired priests lie bleeding,
Is no place for tearful pleading.
     “A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!”

XIIII.
     Louder swells the frightful tumult;
Pallid Death holds reverie;
     Dies the organ's mighty clamor,
By the Norseman's iron hammer.
     “A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!”

XIV.
     And they thought that he repented!
Had they nailed him to a tree,
     He had not deserved their pity,
And — they had not lost their city.
     “A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!”

XV.
     There's a moral in this story,
Which is plain as truth can be:
     If we trust the North's relenting,
We will shriek, too late, repenting:
     “A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!”

--N. O. Picayune.

1 The incident with which I have illustrated my opinion of the policy of those who would have us wait for a “reaction at the North,” may be found in Milman's Latin Christianity, vol. III., p. 133.

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