From her clasped arms, to feel the war-club’s power.
One look he gave, and on his silvery head
The hatchet fell, and loosed the flood of life,
Then sinking down in death’s cold senseless sleep,
Added fresh fuel to the crackling flames
That spread around his lonely sylvan cot,
And lit, with hateful glare, the moaning woods.
Next morn the wandering hunter marked the waste,
And found amid the ashes, human bones,
An axe, a child’s steel rattle, and a lock