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THE MUFFLED KKOCKEK. 233
The mother is there, with her sleepless eye,
To dispute each step of thy victory,
She doth fold the child in her soul's embrace,
Her prayer is to die in her idol's place,
She hath bared her breast to thine arrow's sway,
But thou wilt not be brib'd from that babe away.
Earth ! Earth ! thou hast stamp'd on thy scroll of bliss The faithless seal of a traitor's kiss, Where the bridal lamp gleam 'd clear and bright, And the foot thro' the maze of the dance was light, Thou biddest the black-rob 'd weeper kneel, And the heavy hearse roll its lumbering wheel ; And still to the heart that will heed its lore, Doth Wisdom speak from yon muffled door.
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