Classic Poem

I HEARD as I lay, a wailing sound,
" He is dead — he is dead, " the rumor flew;
And I raised my chain and turned me round,
And askt, thro' the dungeon-window, " Who? "

I saw my livid tormentors pass;
Their grief 't was bliss to hear and see¡
For never came joy to them alas!
That didn't bring deadly bane to me.

Eager I lookt thro' the mist of night,
And askt, " What foe of my race hath died?
" Is it he — that Doubter of law and right,
" Whom nothing but wrong could e'er decide —

" Who, long as he sees but wealth to win,
" Hath never yet felt a qualm or doubt
" What suitors for justice he 'd keep in,
" Or what suitors for freedom he 'd shut out —

" Who, a clog for ever on Truth's advance,
" Hangs round her (like the Old Man of the Sea
" Round Sinbad's neck), nor leaves a chance
" Of shaking him off — is 't he? is 't he? "

Ghastly my grim tormentors smiled,
And thrusting me back to my den of woe,
With a laughter even more fierce and wild
Than their funeral howling, answered " No. "

But the cry still pierced my prisongate,
And again I askt, " What scourge is gone?
" Is it he — that Chief, so coldly great,
" Whom Fame unwillingly shines upon —

" Whose name is one of the illomened words
" They link with hate on his native plains;
" And why? — they lent him hearts and swords,
" And he in return gave scoffs and chains!

" Is it he? is it he? " I loud inquired,
When, hark! — there sounded a Royal knell;
And I knew what spirit had just expired,
And slave as I was my triumph fell.

He had pledged a hate unto me and mine,
He had left to the future nor hope nor choice,
But sealed that hate with a Name Divine,
And he now was dead and — I could n't rejoice!

He had fanned afresh the burning brands
Of a bigotry waxing cold and dim;
He had armed anew my torturers' hands,
And them did I curse — but sighed for him.

For, his was the error of head not heart;
And — oh! how beyond the ambushed foe,
Who to enmity adds the traitor's part,
And carries a smile with a curse below!

If ever a heart made bright amends
For the fatal fault of an erring head —
Go, learn his fame from the lips of friends,
In the orphan's tear be his glory read.

A Prince without pride, a man without guile,
To the last unchanging, warm, sincere,
For Worth he had ever a hand and smile,
And for Misery ever his purse and tear.

Touched to the heart by that solemn toll,
I calmly sunk in my chains again;
While, still as I said, " Heaven rest his soul! "
My mates of the dungeon sighed " Amen! "