That tyranny soon shall cease.

For victory comes, a palm in her hand,
Fresh garlands about her brow;
But the cypress trailing under her feet,
With crimson blossoms, by tears made sweet,
Shall wreathe with the laurel now.




IN TRANSITU.


When the acid meets the alkali,
How they sputter, snap, and fly!
Such a crackling, such a pattering!
Such a hissing, such a spattering!

All in foaming discord tossed,
One would swear that all is lost.
Yet the equivalents soon blend,
All comes right at last i' the end.

Country mine!--'tis so with thee.
Wait--and all will quiet be!
Men, while working out a mission,
Must not fear the fierce transition.