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!