"But hark!—the avenger of blood is at hand;

Dost thou hear the loud shouts of his death-dooming band?

The trampling of horses rings sharp on the breeze,

And armour is glancing at times through the trees;

On! on! for thy life!—if they compass the plain,

Thy sentence is sealed and all rescue is vain?"—

He strains every nerve—he redoubles his speed,

And strength is supplied in the moment of need,

[Pg 48]

The race is for life—and the city is won,

Ere its broad towers reflect the first beams of the sun.—

One proud glance of triumph the fugitive threw

On the band of pursuers that burst on his view,

He shook his clenched hand—and a tremulous cry

Rose and died on his pale lips their wrath to defy;

But the effort, too mighty, has severed in twain

His heart-strings—he staggers and sinks to the plain,

And the cold dews that moisten that toil-crimsoned face

Tell that death claims his victim, the prize of the race,

That the city no refuge to guilt can afford—

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