Precursor of our woes, historic spade, What dismal records burn upon thy blade! On thee I see the maculating stains Of passengers' commingled blood and brains. In this red rust a widow's curse appears, And here an orphan tarnished thee with tears. Upon thy handle sanguinary bands Reveal the clutching of thine owner's hands When first he wielded thee with vigor brave To cut a sod and dig a people's grave (For they who are debauched are dead and ought, In God's name, to be hid from sight and thought.) Within thee, as within a magic glass, I seem to see a foul procession pass Judges with ermine dragging in the mud And spotted here and there with guiltless blood; Gold-greedy legislators jingling bribes; Kept editors and sycophantic scribes; Liars in swarms and plunderers in tribes; They fade away before the night's advance, And fancy figures thee a devil's lance Gleaming portentous through the misty shade, While ghosts of murdered virtues shriek about my blade!