XV.

He is coming! he is coming! Like a bridegroom from his room,{H} Came the hero from his prison To the scaffold and the doom. There was glory on his forehead, There was lustre in his eye, And he never walk'd to battle More proudly than to die: There was colour in his visage, Though the cheeks of all were wan, And they marvell'd as they saw him pass, That great and goodly man!