Poems (Cook)/Song of the Carrion Crow
SONG OF THE CARRION CROW.
The wolf may howl, the jackal may prowl,— Rare brave beasts are they;The worm may crawl in the carcass foul, The tiger may glut o'er his prey:
The bloodhound may hang with untired fang,— He is cunning and strong, I trow;But Death's stanch crew holds none more true Than the broad-wing'd Carrion Crow.
My roost is the creaking gibbet's beam, Where the murderer's bones swing bleaching;Where the clattering chain rings back again To the night-wind's desolate screeching.
To and fro, as the fierce gusts blow, Merrily rock'd am I;And I note with delight the traveller's fright As he cowers and hastens by.
I scent the deeds of fearful crime; I wheel o'er the parricide's head;I have watch'd the sire, who, mad with ire, The blood of his child hath shed.
I can chatter the tales at which The ear of innocence starts;And ye would not mark my plumage as dark If ye saw it beside some hearts.
I have seen the friend spring out as a foe, And the guest waylay his host;And many a right arm strike a blow The lips never dared to boast.
I have seen the soldier, millions adored, Do other than deed of the brave;When he wore a mask as well as a sword, And dug a midnight grave.
I have flutter'd where secret work has been done, Wrought with a trusty blade;But what did I care, whether foul or fair, If I shared the feast it made?
A struggle, a cry, a hasty gash; A short and heavy groan!Revenge was sweet—its work was complete— The dead and I were alone!
I plunged my beak in the marbling cheek, I perch'd on the clammy brow;And a dainty treat was that fresh meat To the greedy Carrion Crow.
I have follow'd the traveller, dragging on O'er the mountains long and cold;For I knew at last he must sink in the blast, Though spirit was never so bold.
I hover'd close; his limbs grew stark— His life-stream stood to congeal;And I whetted my claw, for I plainly saw I should soon have another meal.
He fell, and slept like a fair young bride, In his winding-sheet of snow;And quickly his breast had a table guest In the hungry Carrion Crow.
If my pinions ache in the journey I take, No resting-place will doTill I light alone on a churchyard stone, Or a branch of the gloomy yew.
Famine and Plague bring joy to me, For I love the harvest they yield;And the fairest sight I ever see Is the crimson battle-field.
Far and wide is my charnel range, And rich carousal I keep;Till back I come to my gibbet home, To be merrily rock'd to sleep.
When the world shall be spread with tombless dead, And darkness shroud all below;What triumph and glee to the last will be, For the sateless Carrion Crow!