Sandt, the Murderer of Kotzebue

The night was stormy; yet the clang
Of hammers through the darkness rang,
And on the rampart's vapory swamp
High swung one faint and fitful lamp,
And came upon the gusty swell
The challenge of the sentinel,
As if some deed were doing there
Unfit for man to see or hear.

Morn broke on twilight, dim and slow;
By Mannheim's gates were signs of woe, —
A scaffold hung with black, a chair,
A sable' bench, a sabre bare,
Told that before the setting sun
Some wretch's chain should be undone.

The gates roll back, and from the wall
Come chargers' tramp and trumpet-call;
And, in the horsemen's midst, the dawn
Gleams on a face lone, wild, and wan.
The dazzled eye, the lip of blue,
Tell that to them the light is new;
Tell of tlie chain, the heavy air,
That damps the felon's sleepless lair.
The hand, — that pale, thin hand, which now
So feebly wanders o'er the brow,
By that was murder done; the stain
That left the hand has dyed the brain.

The troops have reached the fatal stair,
The headsman stands beside the chair;
The pale, uncovered multitude
Are hushed as death ; now—blood for blood!

High Heaven! what burning thoughts must roll
Through man beside that fearful goal?
Conscience has started from her sleep;
Now, man of sin ! thy harvest reap.
He sees a traitor's step intrude
Upon an old man's solitude;
He sees the dagger in his heart,
The writh ere soul and body part,
The gasp, the dying gush of gore:
The murderer dares to think no more,
Curses the moment's frantic zeal,
And hurries to the headsman's steel.

Yet, when beneath the rising sun
His native mountains lovely shone,
He raised one eastward, eager glare,
Wildly inhaled the living air,
On sun and sky his eyeball cast,
Like one who on them looked his last;
Gave to the world one dreary sigh,
Then summoned his sad strength to die.

The sword flashed round, the red blood sprang.
To heaven arose the trumpet-clang,—
And of the murderer all that lay
Upon that floor was blood and clay.