XLVIII.

Hear its voice, hear!--a cry goes up to thee, From the stain’d sod; make thou thy judgment known On him the shedder!--let his portion be The fear that walks at midnight--give the moan In the wind haunting him, a power to say, “Where is thy brother?”--and the stars a ray To search and shake his spirit, when alone With the dread splendour of their burning eyes! So shall earth own thy will--Mercy, not sacrifice!