In the dark mantle of a cloud array’d, Viewless and hush’d, the angel and the shade Enter’d that evil city. Onward pass’d The heavenly being first, with brow o’ercast And troubled mien, while in his glorious eyes Tears had obscured the splendour of the skies. Pale with dismay, the trembling spirit saw That alter’d aspect, and, in breathless awe, Mark’d the strange silence round. The deep-toned swell Of life’s full tide was hush’d; the sacred bell, The clamorous anvil, mute; all sounds were fled Of labour or of mirth, and in their stead Terror and stillness, boding signs of woe, Inquiring glances, rumours whisper’d low, Questions half-utter’d, jealous looks that keep A fearful watch around, and sadness deep That weighs upon the heart; and voices, heard At intervals, in many a broken word-- Voices of mothers, trembling as they press’d Th’ unconscious infant closer to their breast; Voices of wives, with fond imploring cries, And the wild eloquence of tears and sighs, On their own thresholds striving to detain Their fierce impatient lords; but weak and vain Affection’s gentle bonds, in that dread hour Of fate and fury--Love hath lost his power! For evil spirits are abroad, the air Breathes of their influence. Druid phantoms there, Fired by that thirst for victims which of old Raged in their bosoms fierce and uncontroll’d, Rush, in ferocious transport, to survey The deepest crime that e’er hath dimm’d the day. Blood, human blood, hath stain’d their vests and hair, On the winds tossing, with a sanguine glare, Scattering red showers around them! Flaming brands And serpent scourges in their restless hands Are wildly shaken. Others lift on high The steel, th’ envenom’d bowl; and, hurrying by, With touch of fire contagious fury dart Through human veins, fast kindling to the heart. Then comes the rush of crowds! restrain’d no more, Fast from each home the frenzied inmates pour; From every heart affrighted mercy flies, While her soft voice amidst the tumult dies. Then the earth trembles, as from street to street The tramp of steeds, the press of hastening feet, The roll of wheels, all mingling in the breeze, Come deepening onward, as the swell of seas Heard at the dead of midnight; or the moan Of distant tempests, or the hollow tone Of the far thunder! Then what feelings press’d, O wretched Basville! on thy guilty breast; What pangs were thine, thus fated to behold Death’s awful banner to the winds unfold! To see the axe, the scaffold, raised on high-- The dark impatience of the murderer’s eye, Eager for crime! And he, the great, the good, Thy martyr-king, by men athirst for blood Dragg’d to a felon’s death! Yet still his mien, Midst that wild throng, is loftily serene; And his step falters not. O hearts unmoved!