THE BROTHERS: HENRY AND JOHN SHEARS
Tis midnight; falls the lamp-light dull and sickly
On a pale and anxious crowd,
Through the court, and round the judges,
thronging thickly,
With prayers none dare to speak aloud.
Two youths, two noble youths, stand prisoners
at the bar—
You can see them through the gloom—
In pride of life and manhood's beauty, there
they are
Awaiting their death doom.
All eyes an earnest watch on them are keeping,
Some, sobbing, turn away,
And the strongest men can hardly see for weeping,
So noble and so loved were they.
Their hands are locked together, those young
brothers,
As before the judge they stand—
They feel not the deep grief that moves the
others;
For they die for Fatherland.
They are pale, but it is not fear that whitens
On each proud high brow;
For the triumph of the martyr's glory brightens
Around them even now.
They sought to free their land from thrall of
stranger,—
Was it treason? Let them die;
But their blood will cry to heaven—the Avenger
Yet will hearken from on high.
Before them, shrinking, cowering, scarcely
human,
The base informer bends,
Who, Judas-like, could sell the blood of true
men,
While he clasped their hands as friends.
Ay, could fondle the young children of his victim,
Break bread with his young wife,
At the moment that, for gold, his perjured dictum
Sold the husband and the father's life.
There is silence in the midnight—eyes arekeeping
Troubled watch, till forth the jury come;
There is silence in the midnight—eyes are
weeping—
"Guilty!" is the fatal uttered doom,—
For a moment o'er the brothers' noble faces
Came a shadow sad to see,
Then silently they rose up in their places,
And embraced each other fervently.
Oh! the rudest heart might tremble at such sorrow,
The rudest cheek might blanch at such a scene;
Twice the judge essayed to speak the word—
to-morrow—
Twice faltered, as a woman he had been.
To-morrow!—Fain the elder would have spoken,
Prayed for respite, tho' it is not death he fears;
But thoughts of home and wife his heart hath
broken,
And his words are stopped by tears.
But the youngest—Oh! he speaks out bold and
clearly:—
"I have no ties of children or of wife;
Let me die—but spare the brother, who more
dearly
Is loved by me than life."
Pale martyrs,ye may cease; your days are numbered;
Next noon your sun of life goes down;
One day between the sentence and the scaffold—
One day between the torture and the crown!
A hymn of joy is rising from creation;
Bright the azure of the glorious summer sky;
But human hearts weep sore in lamentation,
For the brothers are led forth to die.
Aye; guard them with your cannon and your
lances—
So of old came martyrs to the stake;
Aye; guard them—see the people's flashing
glances,
For those noble two are dying for their sake.
Yet none spring forth their bonds to sever—
Ah! methinks, had I been there,
I'd have dared a thousand deaths ere ever
The sword should touch their hair.
It falls!—there is a shriek of lamentation
From the weeping crowd around;
They're stilled—the noblest hearts within the
nation—
The noblest heads lie bleeding on the ground.
Years have passed since that fatal scene of dying,
Yet life-like to this day
In their coffins still those severed heads are lying,
Kept by angels from decay.
Oh! they preach to us, those still and pallid
features—
Those pale lips yet implore us from their graves
To strive for our birthright as God's creatures,
Or die, if we can but live as slaves.
——Speranza (Lady Wilde).
