Page:A Tale of the Secret Tribunal.pdf/11

 If false the tale whose truth I swear, Be mine the murderer's doom to bear!"

Then sternly rose the dread reply— "His days are number'd—he must die! There is no shadow of the night, So deep as to conceal his flight; Earth doth not hold so lone a waste, But there his footstep shall be trac'd; Devotion hath no shrine so blest, That there in safety he may rest. Where'er he treads, let Vengeance there Around him spread her secret snare! In the busy haunts of men, In the still and shadowy glen, When the social board is crown'd, When the wine-cup sparkles round; When his couch of sleep is prest, And a dream his spirit's guest; When his bosom knows no fear, Let the dagger still be near, Till, sudden as the lightning's dart, Silent and swift it reach his heart! One warning voice, one fearful word, Ere morn beneath his towers be heard, Then vainly may the guilty fly, Unseen, unaided—he must die! Let those he loves prepare his tomb, Let friendship lure him to his doom! Perish his deeds, his name, his race, Without a record or a trace! Away! be watchful, swift, and free, To wreak th' invisible's decree. 'Tis pass’d—th' avenger claims his prey, On to the chase of death—away!"