Weary, but now no longer girt by foes, He darkly stood beside that sullen wave, Watching the sluggish waters, whose repose Imaged the gloomy shadows in his heart; Vultures, that, in the greed of appetite, Still sating blind their passionate delight, Lose all the wing for flight, And, brooding deafly o'er the prey they tear, Hear never the low voice that cries, "depart, Lest with your surfeit you partake the snare!" Thus fixed by brooding and rapacious thought, Stood the dark chieftain by the gloomy stream, When, suddenly, his ear A far off murmur caught, Low, deep, impending, as of trooping winds, Up from his father's grave, That ever still some fearful echoes gave, Such as had lately warned him in his dream, Of all that he had lost--of all he still might save! Well knew he of the sacrilege that made That sacred vault, where thrice two hundred kings Were in their royal pomp and purple laid, Refuge for meanest things;-- Well knew he of the horrid midnight rite, And the foul orgies, and the treacherous spell, By those dread magians nightly practiced there; And who the destined victim of their art;-- But, as he feels the sacred amulet That clips his neck and trembles at his breast-- As once did she who gave it--he hath set His resolute spirit to its work, and well His great soul answers to the threatning dread, Those voices from the mansions of the dead! Upon the earth, like stone, He crouched in silence; and his keen ear, prone, Kissed the cold ground in watchfulness, not fear! But soon he rose in fright, For, as the sounds grew near, He feels the accents never were of earth: They have a wilder birth Than in the council of his enemies, And he, the man, who, having but one life, Hath risked a thousand in unequal strife, Now, in the night and silence, sudden finds A terror, at whose touch his manhood flies. The blood grows cold and freezes in his veins, His heart sinks, and upon his lips the breath Curdles, as if in death! Vainly he strives in flight, His trembling knees deny--his strength is gone! As one who, in the depth of the dark night, Groping through chambered ruins, lays his hands On cold and clammy bones, and glutinous brains, The murdered man's remains-- Thus rooted to the dread spot stood the chief, When, from the tomb of ages, came the sound, As of a strong man's grief; His heart denied its blood--his brain spun round-- He sank upon the ground!