The Downing legends : Stories in Rhyme The witch of Shiloh, the last of the Wampanoags, the gentle earl, the enchanted voyage |
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 | The Downing legends : Stories in Rhyme |  |
145
XXIV
But when she saw the fallen chief
She lifted such a keen of grief
That he who harkened there would fain
Have suffered any grievous pain
Rather than hear such wail again.
Next, checking suddenly her moan,
She stooped to search if life were flown;
Then turned her eyes from left to right
To find the victor of the fight.
She fixed him with a settled stare,
A stony gaze of stark despair;
But not another cry was heard,
No mourning nor beseeching word.
She only raised a shaking hand
And pointed to the stranger's brand;
Then drew a finger 'cross her throat,
And made a sign as though she smote;
Submissive, mute, before her foe
And craving death to end her woe.
She lifted such a keen of grief
That he who harkened there would fain
Have suffered any grievous pain
Rather than hear such wail again.
Next, checking suddenly her moan,
She stooped to search if life were flown;
Then turned her eyes from left to right
To find the victor of the fight.
She fixed him with a settled stare,
A stony gaze of stark despair;
But not another cry was heard,
No mourning nor beseeching word.
She only raised a shaking hand
And pointed to the stranger's brand;
Then drew a finger 'cross her throat,
And made a sign as though she smote;
Submissive, mute, before her foe
And craving death to end her woe.
Our hero gazed, right sore amazed
To see this sylvan creature crazed,
And find that he had thrust the dart
Of battle through a woman's heart.
He held himself a hardened soul,
Inured to warfare's bloody dole;
But all at once he felt a meek
Compassion stealing down his cheek.
He turned away in wild remorse;
Without a word he mounted horse;
He fled the living and the dead;
Without a backward glance he fled;
He fled as fast as he could flee,
In horror of his victory.
To see this sylvan creature crazed,
And find that he had thrust the dart
Of battle through a woman's heart.
He held himself a hardened soul,
Inured to warfare's bloody dole;
But all at once he felt a meek
Compassion stealing down his cheek.
He turned away in wild remorse;
Without a word he mounted horse;
146
Without a backward glance he fled;
He fled as fast as he could flee,
In horror of his victory.
| The Downing legends : Stories in Rhyme | |