II.

The moon serene illumes the skies, And earth in deepest stillness lies; No sound is heard, the watchdog’s mute, And ev’n the lover’s plaintive lute.

Madrid enveloped lies in sleep; Repose o’er all its shade has cast, And men of him no memory keep Who soon will breathe his last.

Or if perchance one thinks to wake At early dawn, no thoughts whate’er Rise for the wretched being’s sake, Who death is waiting there. Unmoved by pity’s kind control, Men hear around the funeral cry, “Your alms, for prayers to rest the soul Of him condemn’d to die.”

Sleeps in his bed the judge in peace; And sleeps and dreams of how his store, The executioner, to increase; And pleased he counts it o’er. Only the city’s silence breaks, And destined place of death portrays, The harden’d workman who awakes The scaffolding to raise.