The Patriot's Death

His eye did lose its lustre for a space, And a bright colour mantled o'er his face; His lips did tremulous move, as if to speak, But no words came. On his brow did break The heavy and cold dew of coming death; And thick and difficult hath grown his breath. A moment's space, it was no more, for soon Calmness and sunshine did again illume His stern-resolved features, and a glow Of deep but bridled wrath sat on his brow; But it frowned not, nor did his piercing eye Speak aught that wronged his proud heart's privacy. Fear did not there abide, nor yet did rage Gleam in its fire. Far nobler moods assuage Its potent brilliance and restrain its ire; It nothing knew but the brave patriot's fire, Who slaketh life to grasp at liberty, And dies rejoicing that he has lived free, Well knowing that his death to other men Will be a gathering call—a watchword, when The brave on freedom look in after times.