CRESCENTIUS

I LOOKED upon his brow, -- no sign

Of guilt or fear were there,

He stood as proud by that death shrine

As even o'er despair

He had a power; in his eye

There was a quenchless energy,

A spirit that could dare

The deadliest form that death could take,

And dare it for the daring's sake.

He stood, the fetters on his hand, --

He raised them haughtily;

And had that grasp been on the brand,

It could not wave on high

With freer pride than it waved now.

Around he looked with changeless brow

On many a torture nigh:

The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel,

And, worst of all, his own red steel.

I saw him once before; he rode

Upon a coal-black steed,

And tens of thousands thronged the road

And bade their warrior speed.

His helm, his breastplate, were of gold,

And graved with many a dint that told

Of many a soldier's deed;

The sun shone on his sparkling mail,

And danced his snow-plume on the gale.

But now he stood chained and alone,

The headsman by his side,

The plume, the helm, the charger, gone;

The sword, which had defied

The mightiest, lay broken near;

And yet no sign or sound of fear

Came from that lip of pride;

And never king or conqueror's brow

Wore higher look than his did now.

He bent beneath the headsman's stroke

With an uncovered eye;

A wild shout from the numbers broke

Who thronged to see him die.

It was a people's loud acclaim,

The voice of anger and of shame,

A nation's funeral cry,

Rome's wail above her only son,

Her patriot, and her latest one.