Poems (Southey)/Volume 1/The Race of Banquo
The RACE of BANQUO.
Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!Leave thy guilty sire to die.O'er the heath the stripling fled,The wild storm howling round his head.Fear mightier thro' the shades of nightUrged his feet, and wing'd his flight;And still he heard his father cryFly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly.
Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!Leave thy guilty sire to die.On every blast was heard the moanThe anguish'd shriek, the death-fraught groan;Loathly night-hags join the yellAnd see—the midnight rites of Hell.
Forms of magic! spare my life!Shield me from the murderer's knife!Before me dim in lurid lightFloat the phantoms of the night—Behind I hear my Father cry,Fly, son of Banquo—Fleance, fly!
Parent of the sceptred race,Fearless tread the circled space:Fearless Fleance venture near—Sire of monarchs—spurn at fear.
Sisters with prophetic breathPour we now the dirge of Death!*******1793.