In Him who smites, is dust consigned to dust!

Giver of deathless life! God! who dost spare

The guilty even in vengeance—hear my prayer!

Accept my offered penance! Be thy dread

Just chastisement poured only on my head!

And save my people!”—As these accents passed

From his pale lips, a flush, the deepest, last,

Crimsoned his dying face: a sudden gleam

Of martyr triumph kindled with its beam

His closing eyes—and e’re its lustre fled,