And all is hush’d, till he who seems to wait
In silent stern devotedness his fate,
Hath met their glance—then grief to fury turns:
Each mien is changed, each eye indignant burns,
And voices rise, and swords have left their sheath.
Blood must atone for blood, and death for death!
They close around him: lofty still his mien,
His cheek unalter’d, and his brow serene.
Unheard, or heard in vain, is Zayda’s cry;
Fruitless her prayer, unmark’d her agony.