He had pledged a hate unto me and mine,
He had left to the future nor hope nor choice,
But sealed that hate with a Name Divine,
And he now was dead and--I _couldn't_ rejoice!
He had fanned afresh the burning brands
Of a bigotry waxing cold and dim;
He had armed anew my torturers' hands,
And _them_ did I curse--but sighed for him.
For, _his_ was the error of head not heart;
And--oh! how beyond the ambushed 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 head--
Go, 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.
Touched to the heart by that solemn toll,
I calmly sunk in my chains again;
While, still as I said, "Heaven rest his soul!"
My mates of the dungeon sighed "Amen!"
January, 1827.
[1] Written on the death of the Duke of York.
[2] "You fell, said they, into the hands of the Old Man of the Sea, and
are the first who ever escaped strangling by his malicious
tricks."--_Story of Sinbad_.
ODE TO FERDINAND.
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