On wounds with fevered joy that more profusely bled.
XVI.
“But this is not a time,”—he started up,
And smote his breast with woe-denouncing hand—
“This is no time to fill the joyous cup,
The Mammoth comes,—the foe,—the Monster Brandt,[49]
With all his howling desolating band;—
These eyes have seen their blade and burning pine
Awake at once, and silence half your land.
Red is the cup they drink; but not with wine: