Page:Sentimental reciter.pdf/15

 But now he stood, chain’d and alone,

The headsman by his side;

The plume, the helm, the charger gone;

The sword that had defied

The mightiest, lay broken near,

And yet no sign or sound of fear

Came from that lip of pride.

And never king or conqueror’s brow

Wore higher look than this did now.

He bent beneath the headsman’s stroke

With an uncovered 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. L. E. L.

Nay, dearest, nay, if thou would’st have me paint

The home to which, could love fulfil its prayer,

This hand would lead thee, listen—a deep vale,

Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world,

Near a clear lake, margined by fruits of gold

And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies

As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows,

As I would have thy fate!

A palace lifting to eternal summer

Its marble walls from out a glossy bower

Of coolest foliage musical with birds,

Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noon

We’d sit beneath the arching vines and wonder

Why earth could be unhappy, while the heavens

Still left us youth and love! We’d have no friends

That were not lovers, no ambition, save

To excel them all in love; we’d read no books

That were not tales of love—that we might smile

To think how poorly eloquence of words

Translates the poetry of hearts like ours!

And when night came, amidst the breathless heavens

We’d guess what star should be our home when love