Page:Frederic Rowton on Landon.pdf/13

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I look'd 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 look'd 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 breastplate, were of gold, And graved with many a dent, that told Of many a soldier's deed; The sun shone on his sparkling mail, And danced his snow-plume on the gale.

But now he stood chain'd and alone, The headsman by his side, The plume, the helm, the charger gone; The sword which had defied The mightiest lay broken near; And yet no sign or sound of fear Came from that lip of pride;