XXIII

And if he lived not all so, as one spoke,

      The sin pass softly with the passing bell.

For he was shriven, I think, in cannon smoke,

      And taking off his crown, made visible

A hero's forehead. Shaking Austria's yoke

      He shattered his own hand and heart. "So best,"

His last words were upon his lonely bed,—

      "I do not end like popes and dukes at least—

Thank God for it." And now that he is dead,

      Admitting it is proved and manifest

That he was worthy, with a discrowned head,

      To measure heights with patriots, let them stand

Beside the man in his Oporto shroud,

      And each vouchsafe to take him by the hand,

And kiss him on the cheek, and say aloud,

      "Thou, too, hast suffered for our native land!

"My brother, thou art one of us. Be proud."