When Booth heard the Virginians had fled the field,
Their armies broken, and their courage quelled,
His kind become the exemplar of public spite,
His honor questioned for the promised fight;
The more he was with vulgar hate oppressed,
The more his fury churned within his breast:
He woke his brave audacity for the last debate,
And stirred his rebel soul to fulfill it's fate.
As, when escaped slaves the hunting hound chase,
He makes a bitter retreat, or adjusts his pace;
But, if the pointed canine pierce his side,
The lordly beast returns with double the pride:
He wrenches out the fang, he roars for deep pain;
His sides he gnaws, and stiffens his sanguine nape:
So Booth feels; his drunken eyes flash with fire,
Through his paranoid ears clouds of smoke expire.
At length, he crept, fox-like,
Revolver clutched tight in fear-clutched palm,
As would a shadow Man sees glint the cabin's walls
In the approaching twilight-hour,
To the beat of his dying heart:
Vengeful as the Devil himself, yet, Heroic as Christ.
Just so, he approached Lincoln from behind,
Beloved President and Great Emancipatior,
Unseen as is freedom, and finished,
The long-forgotten script,
That Shay once began:
"So Always, to Tyrants!"