Page:A Tale of the Secret Tribunal.pdf/21

Those who mysterious vigils keep,
When earth is wrapt in shades and sleep,
To judge of crimes, like Him on high,
In stillness and in secresy?
Th' unknown avengers, whose decree
'Tis fruitless to resist or flee?
Whose name hath cast a spell of pow'r,
O'er peasant's cot and chieftain's tow'r?
Thy sire—Oh, Ella! hope is fled!
Think of him, mourn him, as the dead!
Their sentence, their's, hath seal'd his doom,
And thou may'st weep as o'er his tomb!
Yes, weep! relieve thy heart opprest,
Pour forth thy sorrows on my breast!
Thy cheek is cold—thy tearless eye
Seems fix'd in frozen vacancy;
Oh! gaze not thus—thy silence break,
Speak! if 'tis but in anguish—speak!"

She spoke at length, in accents low,
Of wild and half-indignant woe:
—"He doom'd to perish! He decreed
By their avenging arm to bleed!
He, the renown'd in holy fight,
The Paynim's scourge, the Christian’s might !
Ulric! What mean'st thou?—not a thought
Of that high mind with guilt is fraught!
Say, for which glorious trophy won,
Which deed of martial prowess done;
Which battle-field, in days gone by,
Gain’d by his valour, must he die?
Away! 'tis not his lofty name
Their sentence hath consign'd to shame;
'Tis not his life they seek—recall
Thy words, or say, he shall not fall!"