Page:Moyarra- An Australian Legend in Two Cantos, 1891.djvu/64

 The clammy features' livid hue: Is that the idol of our heart?—away! 'Tis but its mockery in clay,

The priests of Death be Disease and Fear; They attend his footsteps everywhere; While gentle Hope, with dewy eyes And dizzy search, would pierce the shade Which, like a mist, doth all pervade Around the temple of sacrifice. Turn, frantic one! that filmy veil Is but diaphanous of ill: Fold after fold awhile withdrawn As night-glooms at th' approach of dawn The fitting time the priests await Their impotent prey to immolate:— 'Tis done—the blow is sped— Horror around is shed— Hope, exiled from the heart of man, Resigns her seat to Terror wan.

Out on thee, man! thy pomp, thy show. But swell the triumph of thy foe:—