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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.
CLAUDE MELNOTTE’S
Description of the Lake of Como.
Nay, dearest, nay, if thou would’st have me paint
The home to which, could love fulfil its prayer,
This hand would lead thee, listen—a deep vale,
Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world,
Near a clear lake, margined by fruits of gold
And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies
As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows,
As I would have thy fate!
A palace lifting to eternal summer
Its marble walls from out a glossy bower
Of coolest foliage musical with birds,
Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noon
We’d sit beneath the arching vines and wonder
Why earth could be unhappy, while the heavens
Still left us youth and love! We’d have no friends
That were not lovers, no ambition, save
To excel them all in love; we’d read no books
That were not tales of love—that we might smile
To think how poorly eloquence of words
Translates the poetry of hearts like ours!
And when night came, amidst the breathless heavens
We’d guess what star should be our home when love
