Away, vain dream!--on Otho’s brow, Still darker lower the shadows now; Changed are his features, now o’erspread With the cold paleness of the dead; Now crimson’d with a hectic dye, The burning flush of agony! His lip is quivering, and his breast Heaves with convulsive pangs oppress’d; Now his dim eye seems fix’d and glazed, And now to heaven in anguish raised; And as, with unavailing aid, Around him throng his guests dismay’d, He sinks--while scarce his struggling breath Hath power to falter--“This is death!” Then rush’d that haughty child of song, Dark Guido, through the awe-struck throng. Fill’d with a strange delirious light, His kindling eye shone wildly bright; And on the sufferer’s mien awhile Gazing with stem vindictive smile, A feverish glow of triumph dyed His burning cheek, while thus he cried:-- “Yes! these are death-pangs--on thy brow Is set the seal of vengeance now! Oh! well was mix’d the deadly draught, And long and deeply hast thou quaff’d; And bitter as thy pangs may be, They are but guerdons meet from me! Yet these are but a moment’s throes-- Howe’er intense, they soon shall close. Soon shalt thou yield thy fleeting breath-- _My_ life hath been a lingering death, Since one dark hour of woe and crime, A blood-spot on the page of time! “Deem’st thou my mind of reason void? It is not frenzied--but destroy’d! Ay! view the wreck with shuddering thought-- That work of ruin thou hast wrought! The secret of thy doom to tell, My name alone suffices well! Stephania!--once a hero’s bride! Otho! thou know’st the rest--_he died_. Yes! trusting to a monarch’s word, The Roman fell, untried, unheard! And thou, whose every pledge was vain, How couldst _thou_ trust in aught again? “He died, and I was changed--my soul, A lonely wanderer, spurn’d control. From peace, and light, and glory hurl’d, The outcast of a purer world, I saw each brighter hope o’erthrown, And lived for one dread task alone. The task is closed, fulfill’d the vow-- The hand of death is on thee now. Betrayer! in thy turn betray’d, The debt of blood shall soon be paid! Thine hour is come--the time hath been My heart had shrunk from such a scene; _That_ feeling long is past--my fate Hath made me stern as desolate. “Ye that around me shuddering stand, Ye chiefs and princes of the land! Mourn ye a guilty monarch’s doom? Ye wept not o’er the patriot’s tomb! _He_ sleeps unhonour’d--yet be mine To share his low, neglected shrine. His soul with freedom finds a home, His grave is that of glory--Rome! Are not the great of old with her, That city of the sepulchre? Lead me to death! and let me share, The slumbers of the mighty there!”