 | Fables in Song |  |
II.
This clay's congeal'd convulsion shows
Pain felt till clay could feel no further.
And round, in shuddering whisper, goes
From mouth to mouth the wild word ‘Murther!’
Men's loathing looks in fancy see
The poisoner's creeping form perfidious.
How hideous must his conscience be
Whose guilt is stamp'd in forms so hideous!
Pain felt till clay could feel no further.
And round, in shuddering whisper, goes
From mouth to mouth the wild word ‘Murther!’
182
The poisoner's creeping form perfidious.
How hideous must his conscience be
Whose guilt is stamp'd in forms so hideous!
Some desperate deed hath here been done.
But whose the desperate hand that did it?
Was he himself, the murder'd one,
The murderer too? Sweet Saints forbid it?
But whose the desperate hand that did it?
Was he himself, the murder'd one,
The murderer too? Sweet Saints forbid it?
| Fables in Song | |