The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/The Patriot's Death
Sonnet—The Patriot's Death.
His eye did lose its lustre for a space,
And a bright colour mantled o'er his face;
His lips did tremulous move, as if to speak,
But no words came. On his brow did break
The heavy and cold dew of coming death;
And thick and difficult hath grown his breath.
A moment's space, it was no more, for soon
Calmness and sunshine did again illume
His stern-resolved features, and a glow
Of deep but bridled wrath sat on his brow;
But it frowned not, nor did his piercing eye
Speak aught that wronged his proud heart's privacy.
Fear did not there abide, nor yet did rage
Gleam in its fire. Far nobler moods assuage
Its potent brilliance and restrain its ire;
It nothing knew but the brave patriot's fire,
Who slaketh life to grasp at liberty,
And dies rejoicing that he has lived free,
Well knowing that his death to other men
Will be a gathering call—a watchword, when
The brave on freedom look in after times.