He mounts the platform — takes his stand 

 Before the fatal block, and kneels 



In preparation — but his hand 



A soft warm touch that moment feels. 



His eyes glance downward, and a tear — 

 The last tear they shall ever shed — 



Falls as he utters "Thou still here !" 

 Upon his faithful servant's head. 



Yes — she is there ! that hellish shout, 



That deadly stroke, she hears them plain, 



And from the headless trunk starts out, 

 Even over her, the bloody rain. 



And she beholds where they have cast 

 (Uncoffined, bleeding yet, and warm, 



His shallow grave filled up in haste 

 Without a prayer) that mangled form. 



But where is all the tumult now ? 



That horrid engine, blood-imbrued, 

 That corse yet quivering with the blow, 



That gazing, shouting multitude ? 



All passed away — all vanished — gone — 

 Even like a vision seen in sleep ! 



And in its stead, lies all alone 



A dog beside a fresh turned heap. 



l 57 



