58
MOYARRA
The clammy features' livid hue:
Is that the idol of our heart?—away!
'Tis but its mockery in clay,
II.
The priests of Death be Disease and Fear;
They attend his footsteps everywhere;
While gentle Hope, with dewy eyes
And dizzy search, would pierce the shade
Which, like a mist, doth all pervade
Around the temple of sacrifice.
Turn, frantic one! that filmy veil
Is but diaphanous of ill:
Fold after fold awhile withdrawn
As night-glooms at th' approach of dawn
The fitting time the priests await
Their impotent prey to immolate:—
'Tis done—the blow is sped—
Horror around is shed—
Hope, exiled from the heart of man,
Resigns her seat to Terror wan.
Out on thee, man! thy pomp, thy show.
But swell the triumph of thy foe:—
