The Beauteous Terrorist
Soft as the morning's pearly light,
Where yet may rise the thunder-cloud,
Her gentle face was ever bright
With noble thought and purpose proud.
Dreamt ye that those divine blue eyes,
That beauty free from pride or blame,
Were fashion'd but to terrorize
O'er Despot's power of sword and flame?
Beware! Those beauteous lineaments
Of girlhood shrine a force sublime,
Which moulds to fearful use events,
And dares arraign Imperial crime.
A fear was in the peasants' eyes,
A palsy smote both tongue and hand;
A network of police and spies
O'erspread the tyrant-tortured land.
The dungeons swallowed all our best—
Who next should perish none could say;
A thousand victims of arrest
Were torn from us one summer day.
The judges, sworn to guard the right,
Interpreted the tyrant's bent;
Though cleared by witnesses of light,
'Twas hard to save the innocent.
The Senate, in its ordered state,
Might free — its voice inspired no awe
Acquittal did not liberate —
The Autocrat annulled the law.
The tender, sweet Enthusiast,
The bright-eyed maid with hero's soul,
Had watched the thickening shadow cast
O'er all the land, in death and dole.
Her girlhood's secret studies, late
And early, in her princely home;
Her converse with the good and great,
The lessons taught by Greece and Rome,
Had nerved her heart to action strong ;
She joined the few who dared the worst,
Resolved to strike the monster Wrong —
To wrestle with the Thing accurst!
[...] Read more
poem by Sir Henry Parkes
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