Fixed on the ruins round him, his dread eye
Glances, as if fastened on his enemy;
His hand is on the fragment of a shrine
That Hate may henceforth deem a thing divine:
Grasped firmly—could the fingers but declare
How dread the oath the soul was heard to swear!
The awful purpose nursed within, denies
Speech to the lips, but lightens up the eyes,
Informs each muscle with the deadliest will,
But till the murderous moment, bids “be still!”