With sable plume and nodding crest, They bore him to his dreamless rest, A cold and abject thing; Before the whisper of whose name
Strong hearts had quailed in fear and shame, While nations knelt to fling The victor's laurel at his feet; Now gorgeous pall and winding-sheet,
Were all that royalty could bring To mark the despot and the king: In solemn state they swept the glowing strand, To meet the conclave of the judgment band.
And soon, with bright, exultant eye, Where fierce revenge flashed wild and high, Accusers gathered fast; From prison-keep and living grave
Came forth the mutilated slave, With faltering step aghast; And sightless men with silver hair, The record of their dungeon air,
Who for long years had sought to die, And wrestled with their agony Till thought grew wild and intellect grew dim, The clanking fetters’ mark on every limb.
With pallid cheek and eager prayer And maniac laugh of dark despair The widowed mother stood; And, with white lips, an orphan throng
Rehearsed a fearful tale of wrong And misery and blood. And strong in virtue others came, Unnumbered victims to proclaim
Of vengeance, perfidy, and dread, Who slumbered with the silent dead. The world might start, the sable plumes might wave, But for that haughty king there was no grave.
O! ye who press life's crowded mart, With hurrying step and bounding heart, A solemn lesson glean; Beware, lest, when ye cross that stream
Whose breaking surges farthest gleam, No mortal eye hath seen, Discordant voices wake the shore The struggling spirit would explore,
And to the trembling soul deny Its latest resting-place on high; Our acts are Judges, that must meet us there With seraph smiles of light, or fiendish glare.
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