The stolid headsman stands, prepared with a sword in hand,
Once more the captive turns his tearful gaze,
Looks all about, sighs deeply as in a daze.
His gaze drops down—awaiting death's near end.
He bares his throat—then slowly his bosom bares,
Kneels down—a pause—while the headsman self prepares—
Then gleams the blade—quickly the headsman leaps,
Blade strikes the wheel—once more the captive stares—
The head falls down—the blade yet deeper steeps—
And the headless body slumps into the grass.
His loved country, beautiful and fair,
His cradle and his grave, his mother's care,
The only soil of which he is an heir,
Hjs native realm that stretches over there.
His mother's land—receives the bloody mass.
Limb after limb they broke—till the doomed man's tortured frame
They forced upon the wheel, designed dead men to maim.
Till his head, that first fell down, over the wheel top soared;
Thus ended were the days of the "Dreadful Forest Lord."
Upon his lifeless cheeks now sleeps a final dream.
40
