THE TORTURE CHAMBER.
BY WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER.
Down the broad, imperial Danube,
As its wandering waters guide,
Past the mountains and the meadows,
Winding with the stream, we glide.
Ratisbon we leave behind us,
Where the spires and gables throng,
And the huge cathedral rises,
Like a fortress, vast and strong.
Close beside it, stands the Town-Hall,
With its massive tower, alone,
Brooding o'er the dismal secret,
Hidden in its heart of stone.
There, beneath the old foundations,
Lay the prisons of the State,
Like the last abodes of vengeance,
In the fabled realms of Fate.
And the tides of life above them,
Drifted ever, near and wide,
As at Venice, round the prisons,
Sweeps the sea's incessant tide.
Never, like the far-off dashing,
Or the nearer rush of waves,
Came the tread or murmur downward,
To those dim, unechoing caves.
There the dungeon clasped its victim,
And a stupor chained his breath.
Till the torture woke his senses,
With a sharper touch than death.