Eager I lookt thro' the mist of night,
And askt, "What foe of my race hath died?
"Is it he—that Doubter of law and right,
"Whom nothing but wrong could e'er decide—
"Who, long as he sees but wealth to win,
"Hath never yet felt a qualm or doubt
"What suitors for justice he'd keep in,
"Or what suitors for freedom he'd shut out—
"Who, a clog for ever on Truth's advance,
"Hangs round her (like the Old Man of the Sea
"Round Sinbad's neck[2]), nor leaves a chance
"Of shaking him off—is't he? is't he?"
Ghastly my grim tormentors smiled,
And thrusting me back to my den of woe,
With a laughter even more fierce and wild
Than their funeral howling, answered "No."
But the cry still pierced my prison-gate,
And again I askt, "What scourge is gone?
"Is it he—that Chief, so coldly great,
"Whom Fame unwillingly shines upon—
"Whose name is one of the ill-omened words
"They link with hate on his native plains;
"And why?—they lent him hearts and swords,
"And he in return gave scoffs and chains!
"Is it he? is it he?" I loud inquired,
When, hark!—there sounded a Royal knell;
And I knew what spirit had just expired,
And slave as I was my triumph fell.
He had pledged a hate unto me and mine,
He had left to the future nor hope nor choice,
But sealed that hate with a Name Divine,
And he now was dead and—I couldn't rejoice!
He had fanned afresh the burning brands
Of a bigotry waxing cold and dim;
He had armed anew my torturers' hands,
And them did I curse—but sighed for him.
For, his was the error of head not heart;
And—oh! how beyond the ambushed foe,
Who to enmity adds the traitor's part,
And carries a smile with a curse below!