Much injured Queen! the hand of TIME At length hath rent the veil away That hid the face of TRUTH; — and Crime, Pierced by her deeply searching ray, Stands forth revealed! — like HIM of yore, Who touched by the celestial spear Of bright ITHURIEL, might no more His brooding form of darkness wear, But, quickly wrought on by the spell, Uprose, confessed, the Prince of Hell! What, though whole ages have gone by Since first Hate strove upon thy name To breathe the blackest blight of shame, Through many a year with tearful eye Did HISTORY mark the wrongs of fame Had suffered from her sons, till growing Indignant that the cloud of blame, Should mar the beams of brightness glowing Around sweet Pity's thoughts of thee; And still with its unceasing gloom Work for thee thus — beyond the tomb, The martyrdom of memory! She bade the Truth's firmest champion wield His pen of adamant, and shield Thy all defenceless life of woes From the keen malice of thy foes;— And on the heads of those who wrought Thy prisonment and death, — and thought That their's should be immortal lies, Roll back their own dark calumnies,— Stamping the brand of infamy Detraction had made red for thee On its own brow eternally!
