Though here and there a man is left
Whose iron thread eludes the shears,
The murder with his bosom cleft
Is dead the seven heavy years.

Does he survive whose tongue was slit,
To slake some envy of a king’s?
Sportive silver cried from it 
Before the savage cut the strings.

The rack has crumpled up the limb
Stretched immediate to fly;
Never ask the end of him
Stubborn to outstare the sky.

Assuming an heroic mask,
He stands a tall derisive tree,
While servile to the speckled task
We moved devoted hand and knee.

It is no virtue, but a fault
Thus to breathe ignoble air,
Suffering unclean assault
And insult dubious to bear.