To tell it was to be a scene of cruelty and blood.

Yet 'mid those guilt-stained men could any vile enough be found
To harm the victim who there stood, in helpless thraldom bound?
A girl of slight and fragile form, of gentle child-like grace,
Though woman's earnest thoughtfulness beamed in that sweet young
face.

Oh! lovely was that winsome child of a dark and rugged line,
And e'en mid Europe's daughters fair, surpassing might she shine:
For ne'er had coral lips been wreathed by brighter, sunnier
smile,
Or dark eyes beamed with lustrous light, more full of winsome
wile.

With glowing cheek and curving lip, she stood, in silent pride,
A queen in simple majesty, though captive bound and tied,
Nor could that sight of death, though fit to turn a strong heart
weak,
Chase back the deep scorn from her brow, the color from her
cheek.

And, yet, it was not wonderful, that haughty, high-born grace,
She stood amid her direst foes, a Princess of her race;
Knowing they'd met to wreak on her their hatred 'gainst her name,
To doom her to a fearful death, to pangs of fire and flame.

But, mindful of the teachings stern of childhood's early years,
She had firmly vowed no plaints of hers, or womanish weak tears
Would glad her foes but, as became her rank and lineage high,