That those who hung upon his words
Should hear his voice no more.

He walked home tranquilly and slow,
Secure, and unaware,
That there was murder in the hush
Of the still midnight air.

"Tis morning," said he, knowing not
That he had done with time;
That a bloody hand would our country stain
With another useless crime.

He stood before a portal closed
To him for evermore,
Behind him with uncreaking hinge
Oped the eternal door.

And ere the east grew red again,
His life blood's purple flow
Had made that pavement holy ground,
And filled the land with woe.

My country! Oh my country!
What is to thee the gain?
Wilt nourish trees of liberty
In blood so foully slain?