The city is alive! through all her streets
Is heard the sound of trump or beat of drum,
The signal of the sentinels, or hum
Deep but not loud, as rumour's tongue repeats
Tidings of terror unto all she meets:
While thousands, wrapt in expectation dumb,
Are waiting—till from dungeon deep shall come
The desperate agent in such daring feats.
He comes! each straining eye, with gazing dim,
On him is riveted; his fearful name
Low, broken murmurs only may proclaim;
Yet every glance, instinctive, turns to him,
Tracing each feature, scanning every limb,
As if his deed had won immortal fame.