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There is dead silence on the breathless throng, Dead silence all the peopled shore along, As on the captive moves—the only sound, To break that calm so fearfully profound, The low, sweet murmur of the rippling wave, Soft as it glides, the smiling shore to lave; While on that shore, his own fair heritage, The youthful martyr to a tyrant's rage Is passing to his fate—the eyes are dim Which gaze, through tears that dare not flow, on him: He mounts the scaffold—doth his footstep fail? Doth his lip quiver? doth his cheek turn pale? Oh! it may be forgiven him, if a thought Cling to that world, for him with beauty fraught, To all the hopes that promised Glory's meed, And all th' affections that with him shall bleed! If, in his life's young day-spring, while the rose Of boyhood on his cheek yet freshly glows, One human fear convulse his parting breath, And shrink from all the bitterness of death!

But no!—the spirit of his royal race Sits brightly on his brow—that youthful face