Memoirs of Anne C.L. Botta,: written by her friends. With selections from her correspondence and from her writings in prose and poetry.

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What though the apostate wields the sword
With fratricidal hand,
And the last Romans wander forth
In exile o'er the land?
What though suspended o'er thee hangs
The Austrian's glittering steel;
What though thy heart is crushed beneath
The imperial Cossack's heel?
Not to the swift is given the race,
The battle to the strong;
Up to the listening ear of God
Is borne the mighty wrong.
From him the mandate has gone forth,
The Giant'Power must fall;
Oh, prophet! read'st thou not the doom,
The writing on the wall?
The slaves of power, the sword, the scourge,
The scaffold, and the chain,
Awhile may claim their hecatombs
Of hero-martyrs slain.
But they that war with Tyranny
Still mightier weapons bear;
Winged, arrowy thoughts, that pierce like light,
Impalpable as air.
Thoughts that strike through the triple mail,
That spread, and burn, and glow,
More quenchless than that fire the Greek
Rained on his Moslem foe.
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