Look whither Nature leads thee, soldier-priest;
Not South to soil war-scourged and thunder-scarred,
Not West where friendship fails thee ocean-barred,
Not to the palsied, mad, monarchic East,
Dazzling with sunlike gems of gay romance
And backward gaze fixed in tradition's trance,
Who sent across the main
The monkish spawn of Spain,
And Austria's yellow plague and black Bazaine,
To lash thy land with battle's gory shower
And cage thee in Puebla's dungeon-tower,
Whence rushed thy eagle spirit new-fledged, and burst
The death-folds of the serpent crowned and cursed,
When hell lost half her power.