But blanching spectral heads;--their heads, who died
Victims to tyrant-pride,
Martyrs of Faith and Freedom in the day
Of shame and flame and brutal selfish sway.

And one in black array
Veiling her Rizpah-misery, to the gate
Comes, and with gold and moving speech sedate
Buys down the thing aloft, and bears away
Snatch'd from the withering wind and ravens' prey:
And as a mother's eyes, joy-soften'd, shed
Tears o'er her young child's head,
Golden and sweet, from evil saved; so she
O'er this, sad-smilingly,
Mangled and gray, unwarm'd by human breath,
Clasping death's relic with love passing death.

So clasping now! and so
When death clasps her in turn! e'en in the grave
Nursing the precious head she could not save,
Tho' through each drop her life-blood yearn'd to flow
If but for him she might to scaffold go:--
And O! as from that Hall, with innocent gore
Sacred from roof to floor,
To that grim other place of blood he went--
What cry of agony rent
The twilight,--cry as of an Angel's pain,--
_My father, O my father_! . . . and in vain!

Then, as on those who lie