| Hamilton Fish Armstrong, ed. The Book of New York Verse. 1917. | | | | The Draft Riot | | By Charles deKay |
| | July, 1863. In the University Tower
IS it the wind, the many-tongued, the weird | |
| That cries in sharp distress about the eaves? | |
| Is it the wind whose gathering shout is heard | |
| With voice of peoples myriad like the leaves? | |
| Is it the wind? Fly to the casement, quick, | 5 |
| And when the roar comes thick | |
| Fling wide the sash, | |
| Await the crash! | |
| |
| Nothing. Some various solitary cries, | |
| Some sauntering woman’s short hard laugh, | 10 |
| Or honester, a dog’s bark—these arise | |
| From lamplit street up to this free flagstaff. | |
| Nothing remains of that low threatening sound; | |
| The wind raves not the eaves around … | |
| Clasp casement to, | 15 |
| You heard not true. | |
| |
| Hark there again! a roar that holds a shriek! | |
| But not without, no, from below it comes: | |
| What pulses up from solid earth to wreak | |
| A vengeful word on towers and lofty domes? | 20 |
| What angry booming doth the trembling ear, | |
| Glued to the stone wall, hear— | |
| So deep, no air | |
| Its weight can bear? | |
| |
| Grieve! ’Tis the voice of ignorance and vice, | 25 |
| The rage of slaves who fancy they are free, | |
| Men who would keep men slaves at any price, | |
| Too blind their own black manacles to see. | |
| Grieve! ’Tis that grisly spectre with a torch, | |
| Riot—that bloodies every porch, | 30 |
| Hurls justice down | |
| And burns the town. | | | | |
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