Before that home of bygone kings a gloomy scaffold stands,
Upreared in Freedom’s injured name to manacle her hands;
Some crowd to worship, some insult, the martyr in her doom,
But over friends and foes a cloud is cast of sombre gloom.
She stands upon the fatal spot angelically fair,
The roses of her cheek concealed beneath her flowing hair;
“Greater than Brutus,” she displays no sign of fear or dread,
But in a moment will be still and silent with the dead.
Her neck is bared, the fatal knife descends, and all is o’er,
The martyred heroine of France—of freedom dreams no more;