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10
CHARLOTTE CORDAY,
A Memoir of a Hand.
A child's small hand, lost in her father's—twinedIn springtide round the stems of earliest flowers,
Which she had found in fields and orchard-bowers,
With earnest eyes, that best deserve to find;
A woman's hand—whose pulses ever glowed
With eager purpose, running bolder blood
Than childhood's; though the loving teardrops flowed
Whene'er she clasped in dreams her country's good:
An armèd hand! fresh from the stricken throat
Of that fierce homicide, whose rage of heart
Woke counter-rage, that came and saw and smote;
Ah! maiden's hand! blood-stained at last! thou art
The very symbol of th' unnatural time
When Norman Charlotte dared her noble crime.
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