Now through the festal crowds abroad
Heralds aloud make known,
That soon the great Sir John must die,
Before the monarch’s throne.
Hush’d is the song and ceased the dance,
And darkening throngs draw near,
In awful silence round the hall,
And bend a listening ear,
To catch the floating sounds that come,
Perchance the fatal blow,
Perchance the death-song of Sir John,
Or his dying shriek of wo.
A private door to that great hall
Is open’d slow and wide,
And a guard of forty men march in
With looks of lofty pride,
For in their midst that captive walks
With tightly pinion’d arm,
Whose very name had power to shake
The boldest with alarm.
The captive’s step is firm and free,
His bearing grave and high,
And calm and quiet dignity
Is beaming from his eye.
One universal shout arose
When first Sir John appear’d,
And all the gathering throng without
In answer loudly cheer’d.
And then the monarch waved his hand,
And all was still again;
And round the hall the prisoner march’d,
Led by the warrior train;
And thrice they went the circuit round,
That all might see the face
That bore such pale and spirit marks
Of a strange and mighty race.