Where have you borne your monarch?--He who loved-- Loved you so well! Behold! the sun grows pale, Shrouding his glory in a tearful veil; The misty air is silent, as in dread, And the dim sky with shadowy gloom o’erspread; While saints and martyrs, spirits of the blest, Look down, all weeping, from their bowers of rest. * * * * * In that dread moment, to the fatal pile The regal victim came; and raised the while His patient glance, with such an aspect high, So firm, so calm, in holy majesty, That e’en th’ assassins’ hearts a moment shook Before the grandeur of that kingly look; And a strange thrill of pity, half-renew’d, Ran through the bosoms of the multitude. * * * * * Like Him, who, breathing mercy to the last, Pray’d till the bitterness of death was past-- E’en for his murderers pray’d, in that dark hour When his soul yielded to affliction’s power, And the winds bore his dying cry abroad-- “Hast thou forsaken me, my God! my God?”-- E’en thus the monarch stood; his prayer arose, Thus calling down forgiveness on his foes-- “To Thee my spirit I commend,” he cried; “And my lost people, Father! be their guide!” * * * * * But the sharp steel descends--the blow is given, And answer’d by a thunder-peal from heaven; Earth, stain’d with blood, convulsive terrors owns, And her kings tremble on their distant thrones! [148] The observation of a French author (_Le Censeur du Dictionnaire des Girouettes_) on the general versatility of poets, seems so peculiarly appropriate to the character of Monti, that it might almost be supposed to have been written for the express purpose of such an application.--“Le cerveau d’un poète est d’une cire molle et flexible, où s’imprime naturellement tout ce qui le flatte, le séduit, et l’alimente. La muse du chant n’a pas de partie; c’est une étourdie sans conséquence, qui folâtre également et sur de riches gazons et sur d’arides bruyères. Un poète en délire chante indifféremment Titus et Thamask, Louis 12me et Cromwell, Christine de Suède et Stanchon la Vielleuse.” THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI.