The lifted axe is glittering in the sun—
It falls—the race of Conradin is run!
Yet from the blood which flows that shore to stain,
A voice shall cry to heaven—and not in vain!
Gaze thou, triumphant from thy gorgeous throne,
In proud supremacy of guilt alone,
Charles of Anjou!—but that dread voice shall be
A fearful summoner e'en yet to thee!
The scene of death is closed—the throngs depart,
A deep stern lesson graved on every heart.
No pomp, no funeral rites, no streaming eyes,
High-minded boy! may grace thine obsequies.
O vainly royal and beloved! thy grave,
Unsanctified, is bath'd by ocean's wave,
Mark'd by no stone, a rude, neglected spot,
Unhonour'd, unadorn'd—but unforgot;
For thy deep wrongs in tameless hearts shall live,
Now mutely suffering—never to forgive!
The sunset fades from purple heavens away,—
A bark hath anchor'd in th' unruffled bay;
Thence on the beach descends a female form,6[1]
Her mien with hope and tearful transport warm;
