Through the midnight Forest leaping—Death’s red harvest fresh from reaping—
Once this skull was steeped and drunken in a revelry of gore:
In his crimson orgie shrieking, mad with lust, and murder reeking—
Thus the Blood-Avenger found him—smote him!—and he raved no more!
In that forest, leaf-enfolded, many a nameless year he mouldered,
Withered, shrivelled, fell to utter dry and desolate decay;
Till of all his savage glory naught there was to tell the story
Save this dark uncouth and dented skull I found, and bore away!
With the coward thought to mock it, in each eyeball’s blackened socket
Once I set a globe of silver as a dread and dismal jest.