John Greenleaf Whittier

“ The other with impatient grasp,
Tightening the death-rope's strangling clasp.
V. The unfelt rite at length was done,
The prayer unheard at length was said,
An hour had passed: the noonday sun
Smote on the features of the dead! ”

“ With its hoarse murmur, "Blood for Blood!"
Between him and the pitying Heaven.
III. Low on his dungeon floor he knelt,
And smote his breast, and on his chain,
Whose iron clasp he always felt,
His hot tears fell like rain ”