He is coming! he is coming!--
Like a bridegroom from his room,
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 walked to battle
More proudly than to'die.
There was colour in _his_ visage,
Though the cheeks of all were wan,
And they marvelled as he passed them,
That great and goodly man.

He mounted up the scaffold,
And he turned him to the crowd;
But they dared not trust the people,
So he might not speak aloud.
But he look'd up toward heaven,
And it all was clear and blue,
And in the liquid ether
The eye of God shone through.
Yet a black and murky battlement
Lay resting on the hill,
As though the thunder slept therein,
All else was calm and still.

Then radiant and serene he rose,
And cast his cloak away;
For he had taken his latest look
Of earth and sun and day.