Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/305

Rh

The sun shone on his sparkling mail, And danced his snow-plume on the gale.

But now he stood chained 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; And never king or conqueror's brow Wore higher look than his did now.

He bent beneath the headsman's stroke With an uncovered eye; A wild shout from the numbers broke Who thronged to see him die.