Songs of the Spirit

Holds out a star. He stands amid the storm, a mighty rock, His long hair blows about, the demons mock His entry to their kingdom, and despair. Groans in the blackness, infamous and bare, And hateful shapes and eyes surround his head— O for the magic of those mightier dead To scatter them, and utterly destroy Their likeness, and to penetrate the joy Of yonder places past the realm of fear ! O that some mighty seer Came to avenge, that might deliver him From this grim fight, whose horrid ranks are dim With mist of spuméd blood, whose long chill hour Beats out each second with the ghastly power, Reluctant till the morning. Shall they cease, These black battalions, and the dawn bring peace To a head holier ? Or shall he succumb, Fight through long agonies and perish dumb, Sword gripped hard to the last ? or shall he fall Recreant, coward, and no more at all Reach the dim martyr-hall of heroes ? Yet The surging shapes gape hideous, to beget 70