XCVIII.
"After life's fitful fever thou sleep'st well!"
We may not mourn thee!—Sceptred chiefs, from whom
The earth received her destiny, and fell
Before them trembling—to a sterner doom
Have oft been call'd. For them the dungeon's gloom,
With its cold starless midnight, hath been made
More fearful darkness, where, as in a tomb,
Without a tomb's repose, the chain hath weigh'd
XCIX.
Or in the eye of thousands they have stood,
To meet the stroke of Death—but not like thee!
From bonds and scaffolds hath appeal'd their blood,
But thou didst fall unfetter'd, arm'd, and free,
And kingly, to the last!—And if it be,
That, from the viewless world, whose marvels none
Return to tell, a spirit's eye can see
The things of earth; still may'st thou hail the sun,
