Brandreth's Soliloquy In Prison. Poem by Samuel Bamford

I must die—but not like a slave
To his tyrant in penitence bending;
I shall die like an Englishman brave,
I have liv'd so, and so be my ending!

I must die—and my doom is my pride;
The death that awaits me is welcome;
The daemon's last pang is defied,
But a day of deep vengeance there shall come.

How shall my blood-shedders repent,
When the nation's hot wrath is out poured!
The freed world will hail the event,
And the pride of its despots be lowered.

They shall howl like the yell of the storm;
They shall flee like the deer-herd affrighted;
They shall, weeping, lie down with the worm:
They shall pray, and their prayers shall be slighted:

Whilst vengeance, and guilt, and dismay,
Their blood-scented footsteps pursuing,
Shall chase ev'ery comfort away,
And leave but affliction and ruin!

Their children shall then be like mine,
No father's fond arm to protect them;
Their ladies in sorrow may pine,
For none will be found to respect them.

What wealth would they freely give then,
For the sleep that I soon shall be sleeping!
To never feel sorrow again—
To know not its watching and weeping!

What wealth would they freely give then
For the grave that poor Brandreth will cover;
To hide from the hatred of men,
From the terrors which fearfully hover!

And what is the gem they would give
For that conscience this firm heart supporting;
That when they no longer could live,
They might die with a Brandreth's comporting!

But conscience can never be bought,
Courage can never be sold:
The villain will die as he ought;
The good man may always be bold!