Page:Passions 2.pdf/166

154

Fol. Yes, chief; I spoke with one new from the West, Who saw the ruinous broil.

Wog. By the black fiends of hell! therein is stored The chiefest of my wealth. Upon its walls The armour of a hundred fallen chiefs Did rattle to the wind.

Alwy. Now it will sound elsewhere. (Wog. in despair.) My noble steeds, and all my stalled kine! O, the fell hounds! no mark of living thing?

Fol. No mark of living thing.

Wog. Ah! and my little arrow-bearing boy! He whom I spared amidst a slaughter'd heap, Smiling, all weetless of th' uplifted stroke Hung o'er his harmless head! Like a tamed cub I rear'd him at my feet: He could tell biting jests, bold ditties sing, And quaff his foaming bumper at the board, With all the mock'ry of a little man. By heav'n! I'll leave alive within their walls, Nor maid, nor youth, nor infant at the breast, If they have slain that child! blood-thirsty ruffians!

Alwy. Ay, vengeance! vengeance! rouse thee like a man! Occasion tempts: the foe, not yet return'd, Have left their castles careless of defence. Call all thy followers secretly to arms; Set out upon the instant.