LITMIR.BIZ

           "Ha!" the king cried, smiling blandly;

           "Ha!" the trumpets answered grandly.

           Proudly priest whirled, knife on high,

           While the maiden bowed—to die.

           Sudden, through the ranks beside her,

             Scattering men, like sparks of flint,

           Burst a snow-white horse and rider,

             Rapid as the lightning's glint.

           One blow hurls Arch-priest to quiver

           Headless, in his beloved river,

           In the twinkling of an eye,

           All the rest are dead, or fly.

           Iram, from Pyropus sweeping,

           As a mower swathes the rye,

           Caught his love, in terror sleeping,

           And her light form swings on high.