Dry-eyed, though grief was at its flood,"Mother, not poorer losing one,Look now upon your dying son."Her own life trembling on the brim,She raised woe-ravaged eyes to him,And in their glances something grewAnd spread, till healing fluttered throughHer pain, a vision so completeIt sent her humbly to his feetWith what I deemed a curious cry,"And must this be for such as I?"Even his captors seemed to feelDisquietude, an unrest stealUpon their ardor, dampening it,Till one less fearful varlet hitHim across the mouth a heavy blow,Drawing a thin, yet steady flowOf red to drip a dirge of slowFinality upon my heart.The end came fast. Given the startOne hound must always give the packThat fears the meekest prey whose backIs desperate against a wall,They charged. I saw him stagger, fallBeneath a mill of hands, feet, staves.And I like one who sees huge wavesIn hunger rise above the skiff
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