A throng that and grew
Around a face that all men knew—
A man who bore a name—
Gathered to listen to his fate.
The Judge sat high. Unbroken black
Around, above, and at his back.
The people pressed for nearer place,
, yet shamed, to watch that face;
And in a space before the throne
The prisoner stood, unbound, alone.
So thick they rose on every side,
There was no spot his face to hide.
Then came the , crying clear,
That all the listening crowd should hear;
Crying aloud before the sun
What thing this fallen man had done.
He—who had held a ruler’s place
Among them, by their choice and grace—
He—fallen lower than the dust—
Had sinned against his public trust!
The Herald ceased. The Poet arose,
The Poet, whose awful art now shows
To this poor heart, and heart of every one,
The horror of the thing that he had done.
“O Citizen! in this high place!
Son of the city! Sharer in its pride!
Born in the light of its fair face!
By it fed, sheltered, taught, and !
Raised to pure manhood by thy city’s care;
Made strong and beautiful and happy there;
Loving thy mother and thy father more
For the fair town which made them glad before;
Finding among its
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