What! you hold yourselves as freemen?
Tyrants love just such as ye!
Go! abate your lofty manner!
Write upon the State's old banner,
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
Sink before the Federal altars,
Each one, low on bended knee;
Pray, with lips that sob and falter,
This prayer from a coward's Psalter:
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
But you hold that quick repentance
In the Northern mind will be;
This repentance comes no sooner
Than the robber's did at Luna.[16]
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
He repented him; the Bishop
Gave him absolution free--
Poured upon him sacred chrism
In the pomp of his baptism
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
He repented; then, he sickened--
Was he pining for the sea?
In extremis he was shriven,
The Viaticum was given;
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
Then the old cathedral's choir
Took the plaintive minor key,
With the Host upraised before him,
Down the marble aisle they bore him,
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
And the Bishop, and the Abbot,
And the monks of high degree,
Chanting praise to the Madonna,
Came to do him Christian honor.
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
Now, the Miserere's cadence
Takes the voices of the sea;--
As the music-billows quiver
See the dead freebooter shiver!
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
Is it that those intonations
Thrill him thus from head to knee?
So! his cerements burst asunder!
'Tis a sight of fear and wonder!
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
Fierce he stands before the Bishop--
Dark as shape of Destinie!
Hark! a shriek ascends, appalling!
Down the prelate goes, dead--falling;
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
HASTING lives! He was but feigning!
What! Repentant? Never he!
Down he smites the priests and friars,
And the city lights with fires.
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
Ah! the children and the maidens,
'Tis in vain they strive to flee!
Where the white-haired priests lie bleeding
Is no place for tearful pleading.
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine?"
Louder swells the frightful tumult;
Pallid Death holds reverie;
Dies the organ's mighty clamor,
By the Norseman's iron hammer.
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
And they thought that he repented!
Had they nailed him to a tree,
He had not deserved their pity,
And--they had not lost their city.
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"
There's a moral in this story,
Which is plain as truth can be:
If we trust the North's relenting,
We will shriek, too late, repenting,
"A furore Normanorum,
Libera nos, O Domine!"