I.

His form upon the ground reclined, With bitter anguish inward drawn, Full of the coming day his mind, That soon will sadly dawn, The culprit waits, in silence laid, The fatal moments hastening now, In which his last sun’s light display’d Will shine upon his brow.

O’er crucifix and altar there, The chapel cell in mourning hung, From the dim candle’s yellow glare A funeral light is flung; And by the wretched culprit’s side, His face with hood half cover’d o’er, The friar, with trembling voice to guide, Is heard his prayers implore.

His brow then raises he again, And slowly lifts to heaven his eyes; Perhaps a prayer for mercy fain May in his grief arise. A tear flows: whence had that release? Was it from bitterness or fear? Perhaps his sorrows to increase Some thought to memory dear?

So young! and life, that he had dream’d Was full of golden days to glide, Is pass’d, when childhood’s tears it seem’d As scarcely yet were dried. Then on him of his childhood burst The thought, and of his mother’s woe, That he whom she so fondly nursed Was doom’d that death to know.

And while that hopelessly he sees His course already death arrest, He feels his life’s best energies Beat strongly in his breast; And sees that friar, who calmly now Is laid, with sleep no more to strive, With age so feebly doom’d to bow, Tomorrow will survive.

But hark! what noise the silence breaks This hour unseasonably by? Some one a gay guitar awakes And mirthful songs reply; And shouts are raised, and sounds are heard Of bottles rattling, and perchance Others, remember’d well, concurr’d Of lovers in the dance. And then he hears funereal roll, Between each pause in accents high, “Your alms, for prayers to rest the soul Of him condemn’d to die.”

And so combined the drunkard’s shout, The toast, the strifes, and fancies wild Of all that Bacchanalian rout, With wanton’s songs defiled, And bursts of idle laughter, reach Distinct into the gloomy cell, And seem far off ejected each The very sounds of hell. And then he hears, funereal roll Between each pause, those accents high, “Your alms, for prayers to rest the soul Of him condemn’d to die.”

He cursed them all, as one by one The impious echos each express’d; He cursed the mother as a son Who nursed him at her breast: The whole world round alike he cursed, His evil destiny forlorn, And the dark day and hour when first That wretched he was born.