The Killing Of The King Poem by David Mitchell

A KING accused of treason
And guilty of no crime:
The bigots now condemn him
In this, the iron time:

The accusation uttered,
The King begins to speak:
'A moment, by your favour';
The prospect now is bleak.

'Wait until I have finished, '
The prosecutor says,
And then he did continue
His accusations base

'The said Charles Stuart, author
Of cruel and bloody wars,
Of murders, spoils and rapines
Thus guilty by the laws.

The King's own subjects charge him -'
A woman intervenes:
'Traitors and rebels, rather! '
O miserable scenes!

They brand her on the shoulder
And head in view of all;
Her hair and flesh on fire;
In pain they hear her bawl.

'I may not tell, ' the King said,
'Why I may not defend
The liberty of my subjects'
- And cheer did many a friend.

If his rights were no longer,
What hope had any man?
—Now Hewson spits in his face,
Saying 'justice' is his plan.

The King he answers calmly,
Drawing his handkerchief,
'God's justice for us both, ' and
The rest of his life would be brief.

And now the last tribunal
Will sentence him to death,
But one man on the jury...
'Hold thou', they say, 'thy breath! '

'I muyst though I should die for it, '
John Downes begins to say,
'Sit still, thou fool, ' says Cromwell,
And Downes records his 'nay:

I will not to this sentence
Agree, ' sits down again;
Dissent was not recorded
So much for Downes's pain.

The King warns his young child
'Don't let him make you King! '
'I will be torn in pieces
Ere they do such a thing! '

The crowds gather together
That January day:
The clouds they break, the King he speakes
The last words he shall say.

The axe has dropped; the King is dead;
The headsman lifteth up his head;
The crowd emits a heavy groan,
And one man prays never again
To hear such cry of human pain
Or such a direful moan.

* * *
The Queen waits news in Paris,
Is sitting all alone;
The messenger returns not;
'Tis long since he was gone.
A Priest, who knows the tale
Says 'he would have returned
Surely, if all were well; '
The Queen the tale has learned.

She stares for hours at nothing,
She does not live in time;
Then one she loves approaches;
Her lord he did not crime.
The Duchess of Vendôme
Kneels down and clasps her knees.
It snaps: they weep: a storm breaks:
The gale howls through the trees.