To right the wrongs of injured maids, the lance in rest to lay,
And nobly fall in honor’s cause or triumph in the fray.
But not to-day a lance is couched, no waving plume is there,
No war-horse sniffs the trumpet’s breath, no banner woos the air;
No crowding chiefs the tilt-yard throng to quench the thirst of fame,
Though chiefs are met, intent to leave their names eternal shame!
A still and solemn silence reigned, deep darkness veiled the skies,
And Nature, shuddering, shook to see the impious sacrifice!
Full in the centre of the lists a dreadful pile is reared,
Awaiting one whose noble soul death’s terrors never feared,