Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 4.djvu/50

20 I saw, and could not hold his head,

Nor reach his dying hand—nor dead,—

Though hard I strove, but strove in vain,

To rend and gnash my bonds in twain.

He died—and they unlocked his chain,

And scooped for him a shallow grave

Even from the cold earth of our cave.

I begged them, as a boon, to lay

His corse in dust whereon the day

Might shine—it was a foolish thought,

But then within my brain it wrought,

That even in death his freeborn breast

In such a dungeon could not rest.

I might have spared my idle prayer—

They coldly laughed—and laid him there:

The flat and turfless earth above

The being we so much did love;

His empty chain above it leant,

Such Murder's fitting monument!

VIII.

But he, the favourite and the flower,

Most cherished since his natal hour,

His mother's image in fair face

The infant love of all his race,

His martyred father's dearest thought,

My latest care, for whom I sought

To hoard my life, that his might be

Less wretched now, and one day free;