With eyes that horror could not scare,
It watch'd the senseless clay:—
Crouch'd on the breast of Death, and there
Moan'd its fond life away.
And when the bolts discordant clash'd,
And human steps drew nigh,
The human pity shrunk abash'd
Before that faithful eye;
It seem'd to gaze with such rebuke
On those who could forsake;
Then turn'd to watch once more the look,
And strive the sleep to wake.
They raised the pall—they touch'd the dead,
A cry, and both were still'd,—
Alike the soul that Hate had sped,
The life that Love had kill'd.
Semiramis of England, hail!
Thy crime secures thy sway:
But when thine eyes shall scan the tale
Those hireling scribes convey;
When thou shalt read, with late remorse,
How one poor slave was found
Beside thy butcher'd rival's corse,
The headless and discrown'd;
Shall not thy soul foretell thine own
Unloved, expiring hour,
When those who kneel around the throne
Shall fly the falling tower;
When thy great heart shall silent break,
When thy sad eyes shall strain
Through vacant space, one thing to seek
One thing that loved—in vain?
Though round thy parting pangs of pride
Shall priest and noble crowd;
More worth the grief, that mourn'd beside
Thy victim's gory shroud!