Peter Faultless to his brother Simon tales of night, in rhyme, and other poems. By the author of Night [i.e. Ebenezer Elliott] |
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 | Peter Faultless to his brother Simon |  |
X.
“My drooping Mary!” Mathew said,“I like this lay of Harry's well;
Though not by practis'd poet made,
(He's not, like Charles, there, one of th' trade,)
'Tis sad, and true. But can'st thou tell
What of the murderer, John, became?
Well may'st thou tremble at his name.
Mary, I slew the accursed man,
The wretch, who killed thy sister Ann.
We met—'twas in the ranks of death,—
With set teeth, and suspended breath:
On me the conscious traitor scowl'd;
On him my startled eye was rowl'd;
He rush'd to slay, but paus'd aghast;
Through him my cranshing bayonet pass'd;
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He lay, and look'd a hopeless prayer.
I, shuddering, turn'd—I could not bear
To look upon the horror there.”
| Peter Faultless to his brother Simon | |