Page:Italian Literature.pdf/8

 Scattering red showers around them! flaming brands And serpent-scourges in their restless hands Are wildly shaken; others lift on high The steel, th' envenom'd bowl; and hurrying by, With touch of fire, contagious fury dart Through human veins, fast kindling to the heart. Then comes the rush of crowds! restrain'd no more, Fast from each home the frenzied inmates pour; From every heart, affrighted mercy flies, While her soft voice amidst the tumult dies. Then the earth trembles, as from street to street The tramp of steeds, the press of hastening feet, The roll of wheels, all mingling in the breeze, Come deepening onward, as the swell of seas, Heard at the dead of midnight; or the moan Of distant tempests, or the hollow tone Of the far thunder!—then what feelings press'd, O wretched Basville! on thy guilty breast! What pangs were thine, thus fated to behold Death's awful banner to the winds unfold! To see the axe, the scaffold, rais'd on high, The dark impatience of the murderer's eye, Eager for crime! and He, the great, the good, Thy martyr king, by men athirst for blood, Dragg'd to a felon's death! Yet still his mien, 'Midst that wild throng, is loftily serene, And his step falters not—O hearts unmov’d! Where have you borne your monarch?—He who lov'd, Lov'd you so well!—Behold! the sun grows pale, Shrouding his glory in a tearful veil, The misty air is silent, as in dread, And the dim sky with shadowy gloom o'erspread, While saints and martyrs, spirits of the blest, Look down, all weeping, from their bowers of rest.



In that dread moment, to the fatal pile, The regal victim came; and rais'd, the while, His patient glance, with such an aspect high, So firm, so calm, in holy majesty, That e'en th' assassins' hearts a moment shook, Before the grandeur of that kingly look, And a strange thrill of pity, half renew'd, Ran through the bosoms of the multitude.