And never king or conqueror's brow
Wore higher look than his did now.
He bent beneath the headsman's stroke
With an uncover'd 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.
With one more extract I conclude. It is a Ballad called
SIR WALTER MANNY AT HIS FATHER'S TOMB.
"Oh, show me the grave where my father is laid,
Show his lowly grave to me;
A hundred pieces of broad red gold,
Old man, shall thy guerdon be."
With torch in hand, and bared head,
The old man led the way:
And cold and shrill pass'd the midnight wind
Through his hair of silvery grey.
A stately knight follow'd his steps,
And his form was tall and proud;
And his step fell soft, and his helm was off,
And his head on his bosom bow'd.
They pass'd through the cathedral aisles,
Whose sculptur'd walls declare
The deeds of many a noble knight,
De Manny's name was not there.
