What suitors for justice he'd keep in,

Or what suitors for freedom he'd shut out

"Who, a clog for ever on Truth's advance,
Stifles her (like the Old Man of the Sea
Round Sinbad's neck,') nor leaves a chance
Of shaking him off-is 't he? is 't he?"
Ghastly my grim tormentors smiled,

And thursting me back to my den of woe, With a laughter even more fierce and wild Than their funeral howling, answer'd, "No." But the cry still pierced my prison gate,

And again I ask'd, "What scourge is gone? Is it he-that Chief, so coldly great,

Whom Fame unwillingly shines upon"Whose name is one of th' ill omen'd words They link with hate on his native plains; And why ?-they lent him hearts and swords, And he gave, in return, scoffs and chains!

Is it he? is it he ?" I loud inquired, When, hark!—there sounded a royal knell; And I knew what spirit had just expired, And, slave as I was, my triumph fell.

1 "You fell," said they, "into the hands of the old man

He had pledged a hate unto me and mine,

He had left to the future nor hope nor choice, But seal'd that hate with a name divine,

And he now was dead, and-I could n't rejoice!

He had fann'd afresh the burning brands
Of a bigotry waxing cold and dim;
He had arm'd anew my torturers' hands,
And them did I curse-but sigh'd for him.

For his was the error of head, not heart,
And-oh, how beyond the ambush'd foe,
Who to enmity adds the traitor's part,
And carries a smile, with a curse below!
If ever a heart made bright amends

For the fatal fault of an erring headGo, learn his fame from the lips of friends, In the orphan's tear be his glory read.

A prince without pride, a man without guile, To the last unchanging, warm, sincere, For worth he had ever a hand and smile,

And for misery ever his purse and tear.

Touch'd to the heart by that solemn toll, I calmly sunk in my chains again;

My mates of the dungeon sigh'd, “ Amen!”