Page:Oriental Sketches Dramatic Sketches and Tales.pdf/83

And bleeding spectre, wilt thou never cease
To haunt my steps, to fix thy glassy eyes
Upon thy murderer, and with thy gaunt
And bony finger point to that dread shape
That steals behind thee? Whither shall I turn?
Where fly to scape these ghastly phantoms?—Blood—
A sea of blood floats round me. If I raise
My burning eye-balls to the shrine where stands
The statue of the Thunderer in grand
And awful majesty, it disappears,
And the vindictive shade from Jove's high throne
Glares on the suppliant;—to earth I turn
My conscious looks, and stretched upon the ground
Beneath my feet, two mangled corses lie.
My wife, my son! why are ye silent?—why
Do you not charge me with my crime? The deed
Accursed in the eyes of gods and men
So nameless, foul, unnatural; so black
That shuddering fiends disdain me.—Heaven and hell
Have shut their gates, and leave me for the prey