The axe was lifted high
O’er Violante... Ere it fell
She saw her husband nigh.
—‘My lord’ she cried ‘I merit death,
Yet on my bended knee,
Ere from my bosom parts my breath,
I pardon crave from thee.
’Tis not through blighted years to live
Lamenting o’er the past,
But my offense to thee, forgive,