The Tyrant’s Death

These thick, strong hands have grasped the ropes of bells,
Pulled down and down, till clamored town and sky,
Which swelled and yelled their voices far to sea.
Who sails within those ships, upon those waves—
O brothers come to grapple with this king—
Know all is ready, all prepared, for death.
Tonight it comes. The tyrant sips his wine,
Plays his mangles lyre of two strings,
Laughs with trait’rous women of the street,
And never dreams rebellious foes are near.
Near. Yes! Silent through the bay,
Silent through dark shadows, to the pier!
Now, up, my gallant men! Old crime must pay!
Devour guards and tower, make him fear!
These thick, strong hands have grasped the ropes of bells;
Now down and down, the tyrant screams and yells!

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