 | The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems |  |
XXV.
A spirit stands before him on the night,That now, beneath its presence, grows to light-
Vapours surround it—darkness wraps its brow,
And makes it into shadowy hugeness grow—
While silence seems to stand, even visible,
As the dark soldier cowers beneath the spell,
And starts with shudd'ring horror to behold,
The Indian monarch now before him, cold—
And chilling up his blood, into a dense
And creeping mass, of agony intense—
He moves not—speaks not—ev'ry muscle's bound
Beneath the dead weight of the presence round;
His eye-balls starting from their sockets, seem,
The only living agents in that dream,
Tho' not a portion of his form, but finds
Some atom, of that terrible sight, that winds
Thro' ev'ry pore and secret artery,
Making the curdling blood creep sluggishly—
God! what a groan of living death now breaks
From his broad chest, as slowly he awakes.
| The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems | |