Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/24

24 Fed in some charnel house. Revenge he vow'd, And every day was one long-troubled pause Of meditation, on that dire resolve. —Thus he, who taught to Earth the taste of blood, Ere scarce that music of the stars was hush'd, Which joyous o'er creation's cradle flow'd, Cover'd the thought of murder in his heart, Till his red eye-balls started, and like flame Glar'd on his shepherd-brother, as he led On by the living streams, his trusting flock. —So strong in that misanthrope's bosom wrought A frenzied malice, that his cavern's bound Oft echoed to hoarse shouts, as fancy drew The image of his enemy, and rais'd A mimick warfare. Then uplifting high The tomahawk, he impotently dream'd To have his will,—but at each foil'd attempt Cursing the weakness of his blasted arm, He struck his bony hand against his breast In self-consuming madness. Every night Was one wild, tossing vision,—acting o'er The deed of murder, with a baffled aim, And deeming at each random stroke, the foe Did multiply himself. At length, strong hate Wrought out its likeness in the savage breast Of three grim warriors. Listening oft and long To his dire incantations, forth they went, Once, when the pall of darkness veiled the scene, To do his purpose. Keenly were they arm'd, And inly fortified by every spell Which that dire necromancer could devise,