THE EXECUTION.
There's silence 'mid yon gathered throng—why move they on so slow?
With neither sign nor sound of mirth, to break their pause of woe?
And why upon yon guarded man is bent each gazing eye?
Where do his measured footsteps tend?—He cometh forth to die!
To die! No sickness bows his frame, or checks the flowing breath,
Say, why doth Justice sternly rise to do the work of death?
Still boasts his brow a bitter frown, his eye a moody fire.
Oh Guilt! unbind thy massive chains, and let the soul respire.
He standeth on the scaffold's verge, the holy priest is near,
Yet no contrition heaves his breast, or wrings the parting tear;
O! wilt thou bear with cold disdain the pangs of mortal strife,
And thus in mad defiance drain the forfeit cup of life?
Look round upon thy native earth, the glorious and the fair,
Cliff, thicket and resounding stream, thy boyhood sported there;
Think of thy sire, that aged man, with white locks scattered thin,
And call these blest affections back, that melt the ice of sin.
