No sunbeam ever pierced its night; Nor aught save lamp there shed its light; No sound save sound of wild despair Hath ever vexed its heavy air. Upon its walls so grim and old Have gathered centuries of mould. It seems that with the birth of time That cell was hollowed out by crime, And there, her hateful labor o’er, She took her first sweet draught of gore. Ha! Ha! I see them! See them now— The cold damp dripping from each brow, With hands oustretched they mercy sue— (Ye know not how my vengeance grew,) While I stood by with sullen smile— The only answer to their grief— For wearied in that dungeon aisle, In smiles _I_ even found relief. I watched them in that dreary gloom, (To me a heaven—to them a tomb,) For hours—for days—and joyed to hear Their pleadings fill that sepulchre. At first they tried to lull their state By cheering each thro’ that dull grate, (For this they lingered separate; I could not bear e’en then to see Them closer in their agony.) And this they did for days! at last A change upon them came— For each to each reproaches cast, In which I heard my name. I spake no word—their dread replies Were only read within my eyes, Which as they glared upon the pair, Like scorpions writhing in their pain When wounded in the loathsome lair, Seemed burning to my very brain. I shall not tell how hunger grew In that dread time upon the two— When each would vainly try to break The bars an earthquake scarce could shake. Nor how they gnawed, in their great pain, Their dungeon’s rusted iron chain; Nor how their curses, deep and oft, From parching lips were rung aloft; Nor how like babbling fiends they would Together vex the solitude; Nor how the wasting crimson tide Of withered life their wants supplied; Nor how—enough! enough they died Aye! and I saw the red worm creep Upon their slumbers, dark and deep, And felt with more of joy than dread The grim eyes of the fleshless dead. Long years have passed away, since then And I have mixed with fellow men; On land and wave my flag unfurl’d Streamed like a storm above the world; For Lorro was a soldier born; His music was the battle-horn. E’en when a boy—his playthings were Such deadly toys as sword and spear. I did not pant for fame or blood, But thus in agony I sought To strangle in their birth the brood Of serpents cradled in my thought. I’ve tried to pray: In vain! In vain! The very words seem brands of fire By demons hurled into my brain— The burning ministers of ire. How Spirit, mid such fearful strife I left the hated mortal life, I need not say; it matters not How we may break that earthly spell; Enough! enough! I knew my lot And feel its agony too well.