Sentimental reciter/Crescentius
CRESCENTIUS.
I looked upon his brow—no sign
Of guilt or fear was 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 throng’d the road,
And bade their warrior speed.
His helm, his breast-plate were of gold
And graved with many a dent that told
Of many a soldier deed;
The sun shone on his sparkling mail,
And danced his snow plume on the gale.
But now he stood, chain’d and alone,
The headsman by his side;
The plume, the helm, the charger gone;
The sword that 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 this did now.
He bent beneath the headsman’s stroke
With an uncovered eye;
A wild shout from the numbers broke
Who throng’d 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. L. E. L.