As a last zephyr, or the last warm ray, Gladdens the closing day, Thus at the scaffold's foot my lyre I try, My turn perchance draws nigh. Perchance before this hour in circle led Has o'er the dial sped, Before the sixty little steps that bound Its course be travelled round, The sleep of death shall on my lids recline, And ere the second line Be written of the couplet I begin, Perchance these walls within Death's herald, black recruiter of pale ghosts Led by his murdering hosts, Shall, with my name, fill these long corridors. Save me! Preserve one arm To hurl your thunder-bolts. One Lover, sworn To wreck full vengeance for each harm By thee, my country, borne. What! die before my quiver all is spent? Till I have torn, and rent, Trod under foot, and kncaded into clay, Those ruffians who with Justice play: Those shameless tyrants who would France destroy, France, murdered, butchered France, O thou, my joy! My scathing pen, gall, fury, deathless hate, Until revenge I sate You are my only gods; henceforth For you alone to live has any worth. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ROCK ME TO SLEEP by ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN TO MAKE A PRAIRIE by EMILY DICKINSON NEUTRALITY LOATHSOME by ROBERT HERRICK THE HOUSE ON THE HILL by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON THE CONTRAST; THE STORMY SIDE by LEVI BISHOP |