I. The transport of a fierce and monstrous gladness Spread through the multitudinous streets, fast flying Upon the winds of fear; from his dull madness The starveling waked, and died in joy; the dying, Among the corpses in stark agony lying, Just heard the happy tidings, and in hope Closed their faint eyes; from house to house replying With loud acclaim, the living shook Heaven's cope, And filled the startled Earth with echoes. Morn did ope
II. Its pale eyes then; and lo! the long array Of guards in golden arms, and Priests beside, Singing their bloody hymns, whose garbs betray The blackness of the faith it seems to hide; And see the Tyrant's gem-wrought chariot glide Among the gloomy cowls and glittering spears— A Shape of light is sitting by his side, A child most beautiful. I' the midst appears Laon—exempt alone from mortal hopes and fears.
III. His head and feet are bare, his hands are bound Behind with heavy chains, yet none do wreak Their scoffs on him, though myriads throng around; There are no sneers upon his lip which speak That scorn or hate has made him bold; his cheek Resolve has not turned pale; his eyes are mild And calm, and, like the morn about to break, Smile on mankind; his heart seems reconciled To all things and itself, like a reposing child.
IV. Tumult was in the soul of all beside, Ill joy, or doubt, or fear; but those who saw Their tranquil victim pass felt wonder glide Into their brain, and became calm with awe.— See, the slow pageant near the pile doth draw. A thousand torches in the spacious square, Borne by the ready slaves of ruthless law, Await the signal round; the morning fair Is changed to a dim night by that unnatural glare.
V. And see! beneath a sun-bright canopy, Upon a platform level with the pile, The anxious Tyrant sit, enthroned on high, Girt by the chieftains of the host; all smile In expectation but one child: the while I, Laon, led by mutes, ascend my bier Of fire, and look around;—each distant isle Is dark in the bright dawn; towers far and near Pierce like reposing flames the tremulous atmosphere.
VI. There was such silence through the host as when An earthquake, trampling on some populous town, Has crushed ten thousand with one tread, and men Expect the second; all were mute but one, That fairest child, who, bold with love, alone Stood up before the king, without avail, Pleading for Laon's life—her stifled groan Was heard—she trembled like one aspen pale Among the gloomy pines of a Norwegian vale.
VII. What were his thoughts linked in the morning sun, Among those reptiles, stingless with delay, Even like a tyrant's wrath?—the signal-gun Roared—hark, again! in that dread pause he lay As in a quiet dream—the slaves obey— A thousand torches drop,—and hark, the last Bursts on that awful silence; far away Millions, with hearts that beat both loud and fast, Watch for the springing flame expectant and aghast.
VIII. They fly—the torches fall—a cry of fear Has startled the triumphant!—they recede! For, ere the cannon's roar has died, they hear The tramp of hoofs like earthquake, and a steed Dark and gigantic, with the tempest's speed, Bursts through their ranks; a woman sits thereon, Fairer it seems than aught that earth can breed, Calm, radiant, like the phantom of the dawn, A spirit from the caves of daylight wandering gone.
IX. All thought it was God's Angel come to sweep The lingering guilty to their fiery grave; The Tyrant from his throne in dread did leap,— Her innocence his child from fear did save; Scared by the faith they feigned, each priestly slave Knelt for His mercy whom they served with blood, And, like the refluence of a mighty wave Sucked into the loud sea, the multitude With crushing panic fled in terror's altered mood.
X. They pause, they blush, they gaze; a gathering shout Bursts like one sound from the ten thousand streams Of a tempestuous sea; that sudden rout One checked who never in his mildest dreams Felt awe from grace or loveliness, the seams Of his rent heart so hard and cold a creed Had seared with blistering ice; but he misdeems That he is wise whose wounds do only bleed Inly for self,—thus thought the Iberian Priest indeed,
XI. And others, too, thought he was wise to see In pain, and fear, and hate, something divine— In love and beauty, no divinity. Now with a bitter smile, whose light did shine Like a fiend's hope upon his lips and eyne, He said, and the persuasion of that sneer Rallied his trembling comrades—'Is it mine To stand alone, when kings and soldiers fear A woman? Heaven has sent its other victim here.'