And at the break of day at last
The "Forest Lord" will yield his soul.
Now, where the bleak stone table stands,
The prisoner rests a weary head,
He kneels, half leaning on his hands,
His mind each happy thought defies,
And in the clouds that span the moon-lit waste
The captive wraps his soul in furtive haste.
Each thought awakes new thought—and dies.
"Rival—my father! Killer—His son!
He—ravisher of my own true love!
Unknown to me—the deed I've done
Was two-fold vengeance from above.
Why did I, whom he cast away
Become the terror, fierce and fast?
Whose guilt shall erase the coming day?
Whose guilt this curse upon me cast?
Not my own guilt . . . This I can say.
Was I lured forth by life's false play
But to avenge my parent's wrong?
If, of my choice I took no breath,
Why must I die a cruel death?
Why must I die, so young—so long.
So young to die!—To have no choice!"
Dread's frenzy stills the captive's voice,
Between the walls—dark, drear and gray;
The shadows of the profound night
Now fill the cell with silent fright,
New dreams the captive's mind delay. . . .
22
