Let the wife of his bosom sigh
For one, his deadliest enemy;
And let him die a death of shame,
The last of all his race and name.
Scarce the green banner of the palm
Moves—like the moonlight on it calm.
Above, the firmament of blue,
Below, wood-fire and dusky hue;
And, round it crouch'd, the wand'ring tribe
Pass song and tale, and laugh and gibe.
Uprose the midnight's latest star,
Hark ! rings a horse-tramp from afar;
They know him by his lightning speed,
They know him by his raven steed;
They know him by his cold pale brow,
The trophy at his saddle bow:
The blood drips from the sever'd head,
Well has the young Avenger sped—
His task is done, his strength is spent,
He staggers to his mother's tent:
Down drops the trophy from his hand,
And drops beside his crimson'd brand.
They crowd to hear his tale of death,
His lip has breath'd its lust of breath;
And there is nothing left to tell
A tale of how they fought and fell.
Race fated to their early doom,
The son sleeps in his father's tomb.Iole.
