And the laureate that chanteth his glory shall be
A pander and traitor more bloody than he.

This alone, if no other, for ever shall stain:

He piled up the block and the Scaffold of VANE.

They drew him along on the sledge through the crowd;
Each head was uncovered and solemnly bowed.

Far up to the roofs of the houses were seen

Mute mourners, all wondering aghast at the scene.
The loving and tender withheld not their tears,

The faces of patriots were troubled with fears,

And the cheeks of some spirits blazed forth with disdain :
They, too. could have mounted the Scaffold with VANE.

They have drawn him along on his sledge through the crowd, He has mounted the scaffold with spirit unbowed.

Some spirits can never their grandeur conceal;

The scourge

and the scaffold their glory reveal;

And the eyes they strained deeply to glance on the frame

So wasted and feeble with sorrow and shame.

Oh! it was not as Rome's latest Roman was there,
'Twas the heart of the Christian defying despair,—
So brave, so unbending, o'er bale and o’er bane,
Oh! the throne of a king was the Scaffold of Vane.

How princely, how peerless he looked on that day,
When the scaffold scowled grimly in bloody array;
When the axe and the halberd so cruel and keen,
To honour the Hero and Martyr were seen ;
And the soldiers stood gazing in wonder and awe

On the cheek that smiled calm o'er the axe and the law;

And wondered to note that the fear and the blame

Were the meed of the Sheriff and headsman; while shame

Shrunk timid afar from the scaffold, to keep

A Royal companionship, noisy and deep,
And left to the victim no sorrow or stain,

But curtained with beauty the Scaffold of Vane.

When tyrants their victims urge on to the tomb,
The hearts of the people sink throbbing to gloom;
But the gloom is the dawn of the morn, and they see
The RIGHT-starting forth where a scaffold should be.
Ho, tyrants! Ho, traitors! Behold it, for here
The poor headless body must wait for its bier.
What of that? He has conquered by dying. The truth
Has sprung from this block in the glow of its youth.
Ho! the chariot that waits when the martyrs are slain
Hath passed to the skies with the spirit of VANE.

Yet sad are our hearts when the noble and brave
Pass down in their garments of blood to the grave;
While satyrs and vampires malignant are seen

Dancing lewdly and wild where their grave should be green;
While Vice, decked with roses, sits gay on its throne,

And sings its lewd songs in its Bacchanal tone,

Meek Faith sinks to death with a spasm of pain,

Or sighs as she sighed by the Scaffold of VANE.

Yet better by far is the Scaffold of Vane

Than the couch where Charles Stuart sank shrieking with. pain;

With a lie in his mouth and a lie on his heart,
And a weak hand uplifted to ward off the dart;
And his harlot attendants, who pressed but to peep
And to pillage his form, as he slept his last sleep;
With scoundrels and traitors to curtain the gloom;
And a hireling Confessor to sneak through the room.
Great God! I had rather the Scaffold of VANE,
Or I'd rot to my death in a dungeon and chain.*

*It is, perhaps, needless to say that this last verse, severe as it seems or sounds, merely describes the death-bed of Charles the Second; a passage from John Evelyn's letters will, doubtless, occur to the memory of many readers.

NIBLEY, GLOUCESTERSHIRE, 1856.

INDEX.