82
THE FLIGHT.
And tho' these fathers will not hear, the blessed Heavens are just,
And Love is fire, and burns the feet would trample it to dust.
And Love is fire, and burns the feet would trample it to dust.
XVIII.
A door was open'd in the house—who? who? my father sleeps!
A stealthy foot upon the stair! he—some one—this way creeps!
If he? yes, he . . . lurks, listens, fears his victim may have fled—
He! where is some sharp-pointed thing? he comes, and finds me dead.
A door was open'd in the house—who? who? my father sleeps!
A stealthy foot upon the stair! he—some one—this way creeps!
If he? yes, he . . . lurks, listens, fears his victim may have fled—
He! where is some sharp-pointed thing? he comes, and finds me dead.
XIX.
Not he, not yet! and time to act—but how my temples burn!
Not he, not yet! and time to act—but how my temples burn!
