More like a thing that ne'er had life,

A monument of Azo's wife,

350

Than her, that living guilty thing,

Whose every passion was a sting,

Which urged to guilt, but could not bear

That guilt's detection and despair.

355

But yet she lived-and all too soon
Recover'd from that death-like swoon-
But scarce to reason-every sense
Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense;
And each frail fibre of her brain

360

When midnight storms are mustering wrath.
She fear'd-she felt that something ill

Lay on her soul, so deep and chill

That there was sin and shame she knew;

370

That some one was to die-but who?

She had forgotten :-did she breathe?
Could this be still the earth beneath,
The sky above, and men around;

Or were they fiends who now so frown'd

375

On one, before whose eyes each eye
Till then had smiled in sympathy?
All was confused and undefined
To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind;
A chaos of wild hopes and fears:
And now in laughter, now in tears,

380

In the gray square turret swinging,
With a deep sound, to and fro.
Heavily to the heart they go!

390

Hark! the hymn is singing-
The song for the dead below,

Or the living who shortly shall be so!

For a departing being's soul

The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll:

He is near his mortal goal;

Kneeling at the Friar's knee;

Sad to hear-and piteous to see

Kneeling on the bare cold ground,

With the block before and the guards around

396

And the headsman with his bare arm ready,

That the blow may be both swift and steady,
Feels if the axe be sharp and true—

Since he set its edge anew:

401

While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 4'5 To see the Son fall by the doom of the Father.

141

With a clear and ghastly glitter

Oh! that parting hour was bitter!

425

His mantling cloak before was stripp'd,

His bright brown locks must now be clipp'd; 435 'Tis done-all closely are they shorn

The vest which till this moment worn-
The scarf which Parisina gave-

Must not adorn him to the grave.

Even that must now be thrown aside,

440

And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied;

But no-that last indignity

Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye.

All feelings seemingly subdued,

In deep disdain were half renew'd,

When headman's hands prepared to bind

Those eyes which would not brook such blind:

As if they dared not look on death.

No-yours my forfeit blood and breath

445

"These hands are chain'd-but let me die
"At least with an unshackled eye-
"Strike:"-and as the word he said,
Upon the block he bow'd his head;
These the last accents Hugo spoke :
"Strike"-and flashing fell the stroke-
Roll'd the head-and, gushing, sunk
Back the stain'd and heaving trunk,
In the dust, which each deep vein
Slaked with its ensanguined rain;
His eyes and lips a moment quiver,
Convulsed and quick-then fix for ever.

He died, as erring man should die,
Without display, without parade;
Meekly had he bow'd and pray'd,
As not disdaining priestly aid,
Nor desperate of all hope on high.

450

455

460

465

No thought but heaven-no word but prayer—
Save the few which from him broke,

When, bared to meet the headman's stroke,