The Dungeoned Anarchist.

He crouches, voiceless, in his tomb-like cell,
    Forgot of all things save his jailer's hate
    That turns the daylight from his iron grate
To make his prison more and more a hell;
For him no coming day or hour shall spell
    Deliverance, or bid his soul await
    The hand of Mercy at his dungeon gate:
He would not know even though a kingdom fell!
The black night hides his hand before his eyes,--
    That grim, clenched hand still burning with the sting
Of royal blood; he holds it like a prize,
    Waiting the hour when he at last shall fling
The stain in God's face, shrieking as he dies:
    "Behold the unconquered arm that slew a king!"