There comes the howling madman from the tombs
That worries me with daily jibe and taunt
And curses: and he's strong, too — that's the worst —
Lean as he is, I saw him grapple once
With Dan of Gadara, the wrestling Jew,
And fling him, stunned and shattered, to the earth,
As I might smash a melon on the rock.
I would my old boar's tusk were in his flank!
Where shall I hide me? — Hah! he turns away.
Thanks to those trampers on the distant road
That catch his eye. He'll scare them! Little dream
Their worships of the lion in their path.
Why, what is this? I have seen him face ere now
A score of Herod's stoutest men-at-arms,
And scatter them in panic; and lo! here
He nears those pilgrims, cringing, like a slave
Before an angry master; or a hound
That eyes the lifted lash, nor dares to bite,
Nor dares to fly. I cannot catch his words, —
The distance blurs them; but his gesture owns
Some power his devil does not dare gainsay,
Some fascination that, despite himself.
Attracts and spells him. He's a proper man
That seems their chief, — a marvellous proper man!
With what a calm majestic confidence
He heads the huddling dozen at his heels!
By heaven, it's strange! — the madman kneels to him —
Clasps suppliant hands, — most wonderful! I catch
No glint of arms, no sign of force to quell
The fiend that dwells in him, yet — manifest
The maniac owns his Master; seems to wait
Command, submissive, rises, bows the head
Of reverence, takes the hindmost place i' the troop.
Meek as an infant, follows like a sheep
The pilgrims on their path, — most wonderful!
Pray heaven he come not back more mad than erst!
Curious! — what sudden gust was that which swept
Athwart me? What strange rushing as of wings
Innumerable plied? There's not a cloud
In all the dome of heaven, no sign of —— Hey!
What ails the swine? I've heard men say a pig
Can see the wind; there's something in this breeze.
Visible to them, I see not. How they start.
And leap, and whine, and squeal! — why, God's my life!
They're off — the old boar the foremost! Sheva! ho!
The lubber does not hear me; fast asleep,
I dare be sworn, beneath the sycamores, —
Quick! to the cliff and head them back! — too late!
There's a black torrent pouring down its side
That never will flow back! an avalanche
Of pork, — boar, sow, and pig and pigling, — bent
To perish! pell-mell, helter-skelter, down
They blunder headlong, shrieking, jostling, each
Borne down by the other, conscious of the plunge
To come, yet mad to take it. Souse! the lake
Is seething, foaming, round a hundred specks
Of struggling, floundering blackness!
