43
My time shall come; and then, ay, then
The wanton stars shall reel
Like drunkards all, when we madmen
Upraise our laughter-peal.
I see the cause: the Twain—the One—
The Shape that gibbered in the sun!
You pinch my wrist, you press my knee,
With fingers long and small;
Light fetters these—not so on me
Did heathen shackles fall,
When I was captived in the fight
On Candy's fatal shore;
And paynims won a battered knight,
A living well of gore
How the knaves smote me to the ground,
And hewed me like a tree all round!
They hammered irons on my hand,
And irons on my knee;
They bound me fast with many a band,
To pillar and to tree;
They flung me in a loathsome pit,
Where loathly things were rife—
