Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/24

Fed in some charnel house. Revenge he vow'd,
And every day was one long-troubled pause
Of meditation, on that dire resolve.
—Thus he, who taught to Earth the taste of blood,
Ere scarce that music of the stars was hush'd,
Which joyous o'er creation's cradle flow'd,
Cover'd the thought of murder in his heart,
Till his red eye-balls started, and like flame
Glar'd on his shepherd-brother, as he led
On by the living streams, his trusting flock.
—So strong in that misanthrope's bosom wrought
A frenzied malice, that his cavern's bound
Oft echoed to hoarse shouts, as fancy drew
The image of his enemy, and rais'd
A mimick warfare. Then uplifting high
The tomahawk, he impotently dream'd
To have his will,—but at each foil'd attempt
Cursing the weakness of his blasted arm,
He struck his bony hand against his breast
In self-consuming madness. Every night
Was one wild, tossing vision,—acting o'er
The deed of murder, with a baffled aim,
And deeming at each random stroke, the foe
Did multiply himself.
                              At length, strong hate
Wrought out its likeness in the savage breast
Of three grim warriors. Listening oft and long
To his dire incantations, forth they went,
Once, when the pall of darkness veiled the scene,
To do his purpose. Keenly were they arm'd,
And inly fortified by every spell
Which that dire necromancer could devise,