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The lifted axe is glittering in the sun— It falls—the race of Conradin is run! Yet from the blood which flows that shore to stain, A voice shall cry to heaven—and not in vain! Gaze thou, triumphant from thy gorgeous throne, In proud supremacy of guilt alone, Charles of Anjou!—but that dread voice shall be A fearful summoner e'en yet to thee!

The scene of death is closed—the throngs depart, A deep stern lesson graved on every heart. No pomp, no funeral rites, no streaming eyes, High-minded boy! may grace thine obsequies. O vainly royal and beloved! thy grave, Unsanctified, is bath'd by ocean's wave, Mark'd by no stone, a rude, neglected spot, Unhonour'd, unadorn'd—but unforgot; For thy deep wrongs in tameless hearts shall live, Now mutely suffering—never to forgive!

The sunset fades from purple heavens away,— A bark hath anchor'd in th' unruffled bay; Thence on the beach descends a female form,6 Her mien with hope and tearful transport warm;