Here, behind the heavy grating,
Sits the scribe, with pen and scroll,
Waiting till the giant terror
Bursts the secrets of the soul;
Till the fearful tale of treason
From the shrinking lips is wrung,
Or the final, false confession
Quivers from the trembling tongue;
When the spirit, torn and tempted,
Tried beyond its utmost scope,
By an anguish past endurance,
Madly cancels all its hope;
From the pointed cliffs of torture,
With its shrieks upon the air,
Suicidal, plunging blindly,
In the frenzy of despair!
But the grey old tower is fading,
Fades, in sunshine, from the eye,
Like some evil bird whose pinion
Dimly blots the distant sky.
So the ancient gloom and terror
Of the ages fade away,
In the sunlight of the present,
Of our better, purer day!