Far from the rest, in fetters wrapt he lay,

Where the wan moonlight threw a slanting ray

Thro' the dim grate; his rapture beaming eyes

On this he fixes, and in transport cries—

"Oh, sacred lamp! since last on thee I gazed,

What joy unthought this drooping soul has raised!

In deep amaze I view my alter'd state,

And scarce believe the wonders of my fate.

My heart, so late the slave of vice and fear,

Now smiles at death, and thinks no fate severe.

Drop, infamy from thy neglecting hand

My name; deny it a perennial brand;

And cast a friendly veil on the disgrace

A deed like mine entails on human race.

What said I? No.—Pour all thy floods of shame

Thro' future ages on Ernestus' name;

Say, that with cool untrembling hand he spilt

His master's blood, and gloried in his guilt:

So shall the sons of earth in other times,

Know my disgrace, and tremble at my crimes.

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