Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 046.djvu/830

814 "And dost thou still, O King! rejoice To think how then the Roman died, Who, trusting thine imperial voice, For life, for all on thee relied?

Twas said, but sooth it cannot be, That Otho's lips unfaltering swore The Roman state should still be free, It's consul ne'er be perill'd more."

"By Peter! truly thus they say," The lithe Italian subtly thought; "Our German wit could never play With arms by Latin cunning wrought.

"Thou needs must praise the shrewd device That wiled him down from Hadrian's mole. The Pope absolved me at the price Of fifty masses for his soul.

"Not soon shall Rome of freedom speak, And scorn our distant German crown; But tell me why I feel so weak, And why thy beauty wears a frown."

"Full soon thy weakness, King! will end, And frowns are idle clouds to life; But say, thou flattering amorous friend, Did slain Crescentius leave a wife?"

"The slave deserved no fondling smile, His wife, be sure, was nought to me; I let my squires their toil beguile With favours due from such as she.

"Why glarest thou thus with horrid eyes? Nay, woman, would'st thou strike a king? I cannot speak—my shout but sighs— Help—help—O! snakes my bosom wring."

"So perish, tyrant! know that I Am wife to him so basely slain; To me 'twas only left to die— To die, but not to die in vain.

"Thou canst not speak, but 'mid thy pang I still can pierce thy freezing ear; Though loud the Emperor's triumph rang, My husband's ghost is monarch here.

"O God! who bring'st to guilty souls, By their own hands, the vengeance due; Thy thunder now above me rolls, And hails the deed, not bids me rue.

"The poison works, the brow is stamp'd, The cold eye stares, the jaw drops down; Pale corpse, my spirit too is damp'd, And faints before thy lifeless frown.

"And yet a righteous deed is done, And I shake off that weariest load; The thought of vengeance due to one Who ne'er with truth or mercy glow'd.

"Corroding grief and madd'ning shame Are still the fiends that goad my life; But 'twill not blot Crescentius' fame, If men record his hapless wife.

"Lie still thou heap that wert a King, And yield thy signet gem to me; My cloak, like night, and Otho's ring, Will soon have set the murderess free.

"But free to what? to pass her days In some dark cell of cloister'd woe; To hate the sunshine's gladdening rays, And long for death's releasing blow.

"My Lords! the King for some two hours Will rest, and all without may wait; This royal token shows my powers To pass at will through guards and gate."