Martin
D . Armstrong .
Through
all
my pulsing
veins
.
So
had
I
died
In
slavery
.
But last year
he
rode away
To
court
,
in
Paris
;
and
the
self
-
same day
,
When
noon
had mellowed
into eventide
,
A
thought leapt
in
my
brain
,
and
I
took
down
A
rusty
axe and
ground
it
on
the wheel
,
And
shaped
the
edge until
the
sharpened
steel
Shone like
a
minnow
.
Then
I
climbed
the crown
Of that broad
slope
,
where girt with
massy
oaks
His hall
looks out upon
the
timbered
lands
,
And
heaving
up
the
weapon
in
my hands
Hewed
at
a
bole
.
Birds
scattered
at
the
strokes
.
Oh
,
it
was good
to
feel the
singing
axe
Bite
deep
and
deeper
;
good
to
feel
the sting
Nettle my palms
;
to
see
at
every
swing
Wedges
of
living wood
fly,
as
the hacks
Clove
through
its
toughness
.
It
was good
to
use
My muscles
for
my
pleasure
;
make my
strength
Obey my will
.
Now
first
through
all
the
length
Of labouring
years
I
felt
delight suffuse
My glowing
limbs
.
The sunset
waxed
apace
Till all
the
tree
-
trunks
ranged
along the
hill
Stood
black
against
the splendour
,
like the grille
Before
a
torture
chamber
;
and my face