Hustled she drains among the cursing crew
Ordeal poison from a gourden bowl,
And, struggling piteous to reverse the doom
Of her young murder, reels, and sinks, and falls;
A hundred daggers mangling her fair life. . . . .
Do these not need the Gospel of the Lord?

⁠Therefore I press right onward to my goal:
Nor only for an hour, a month, a year;
But while life lasts, a warrior to the end,
I wrest from Fortune all she would withhold.
Even as a lion in his sultry lair
Shakes off a myriad dew-drops from his mane,
So have I spurn'd all hampering obstacle,
Regarding danger with a quiet smile.
O civilizer, shrink from Violence!
Use Righteousness, and broad Humanity,
With temperate firmness; govern your own selves,
And so the people: yet never seem to fear;
Nor be ye loth to call auxiliar might
Of muscular right arm, or deadly rifle,