14
Give me back him for whom I fought,
For whom my blood was shed;
Thou canst not, and, O king! his blood
Be mountains on thy head!”
He loosed the rein, his slack hand
Fell upon the silent face,
He cast one long deep mournful glance,
And fled from that sad place;
His after fate no more was heard
Amid the martial train,
His banner led the spears no more
Among the hills of Spain!Hemans.
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.
