No!—nearer rolls the human sea,
Arms flash, and eyeballs gleam.
He thinks of her, pale, tender, fair—
To nameless tortures given,
Gore-stained and soiled the bright brown hair—
His very soul is riven.
He lifts the weapon. Did he think
Of a happy summer time—
Of the village meadow—river brink,
Of the merry wedding chime?