LITMIR.BIZ

           Blare of trumpet fills the valley;

           Slowly, and majestically,

           Swingeth wide, in solemn state,

           Lord Amen-Ra's temple-gate.

           Thence the warrior-host emeigeth,

             Casque, and corselet, spear, and shield;

           As the tide of red ore suigeth

             From the furnace-door revealed.

           After them, tumultuous rushing,

           Mob, and medley, crowd, and crushing;

           And the hungry file of priests,

           Loosely zoned for larger feasts.

           "Look!" The whispered awe enhances

             With a thrill their merry treat;

           As one readeth grim romances,

             In a sunny window-seat

           "Look! It is the maid selected

           For the sacrifice expected:

           By the Gods, how proud and brave

           Steps she to her watery grave!"

           Strike up cymbals, gongs, and tabours,

             Clarions, double-flutes, and drums;

           All that bellows, or belabours,

             In a surging discord comes.

           Scarce Duke Iram can keep under

           His wild steed's disdain and wonder,

           While his large eyes ask alway—

           "Dareth man attempt to neigh?"

           He hath snuffed the great Sahara,

             And the mute parade of stars;

           Shall he brook this shrill fanfara,

             Ramshorns, pigskins, screechy jars?

           What hath he to do with rabble?

           Froth is better than their babble;

           Let him toss them flakes of froth,

           To pronounce his scorn and wrath.

           With his nostrils fierce dilating,

             With his crest a curling sea,

           All his volumed power is waiting

             For the will, to set it free.

           "Peace, my friend!"   The touch he knoweth

           Calms his heart, howe'er it gloweth:

           Horse can shame a man, to quell

           Passion, where he loveth well.

           "Nay, endure we," saith the rider,

             "Till her plighted word be paid;

           Then, though Satan stand beside her,

             God shall help me swing this blade."

           Lo, upon the deep-piled dais,

           Wrought in hallowed looms of Sais,

           O'er the impetuous torrent's swoop,

           Stands the sacrificial group!

           Tall High-priest, with zealot fires

             Blazing in those eyeballs old,

           Swathes him, as his rank requires,

             Head to foot, in linen fold.

           Seven attendants round him vying,

           In a lighter vesture plying,

           Four with skirts, and other three

           Tunic'd short from waist to knee.

           Free among them stands the maiden,

             Clad in white for her long rest;

           Crowned with gold, and jewel-laden,

             With a lily on her breast

           Lily is the mark that showeth

           Where that pure and sweet heart gloweth;

           Here must come, to shed her life,

           Point of sacrificial knife.

           Here the knife is, cold and gleaming,

             Here the colder butcher band.

           Was the true love nought but dreaming,

             Feeble heart, and coward hand?

           Strength unto the weak is given,

           When their earthly bonds are riven;

           Ere the spirit is called away,

           Heaven begins its tranquil sway.

           Life hath been unstained, and therefore

             Pleasant to look back upon;

           But there is not much to care for,

             When the light of love is gone.

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