 | The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems |  |
XXIV.
Fear hangs upon him like a spell—A deep, oppressive, deadly weight.
He speaks—his tones are like the knell—
The penal tones of fate!
He starts—cold dews are on his brow,
His hair's erect—his eye-balls glare,
And strange, unmeaning accents flow
From his cold lips, to empty air!
A pray'r is on his lips—a pray'r,
The first, perchance, heard ever there;
And audible, but half suppress'd
Accents of fear are in his breast—
He calls on Heav'n—on God—on all
On whom he once disdain'd to call!—
On all—whom, once, in victory's pride,
The impious wretch had dar'd deride,
And scorn'd the very book, his hands,
32
The manual of the simple race,
Who, born not yet to light or grace.
Ill-fortune render'd to the sway,
Of savage, less refin'd than they.
| The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems | |