The bridal of Vaumond A Metrical Romance |
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The bridal of Vaumond | ||
139
XIX.
Now through the broad lands trod the twainOf the proudest noble in prince's train:
He rul'd his serfs with iron hand—
They bleed and die at his command;
The meed of toil, that the scalding tear
On the spurn'd hearth must be dropping e'er;
That the burning soul's indignant burst
Must wither the source its warmth that nurst;
When the son from his helpless sire was torn,
When the bride was widow'd and left forlorn,
When lust his foul and damning stain
Left on the unrespected fane,—
When wife and daughter were shrinking led,
For the sacrifice deck'd to the tyrant's bed;—
Ask ye his name?—'tis known beyond
His power's wide grasp—accurst Vaumond!
The bridal of Vaumond | ||