When his couch of sleep is prest,
And a dream his spirit’s guest;
When his bosom knows no fear,
Let the dagger still be near,
Till, sudden as the lightning’s dart,
Silent and swift it reach his heart!
One warning voice, one fearful word,
Ere morn beneath his towers be heard,
Then vainly may the guilty fly,
Unseen, unaided,—he must die!