POETRY. 711 



Receding now, the dying numbers ring 



Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell. 

 And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring 



A wand'ring witch-note of the distant spell — 

 And now, 'tis silence all ! — Enchantress, fare thee well 1 



THE SACRIFICE. 



[From Southey's Curse of Kehama.] 



The Sun rides high ; the hour is nigh ; 

 The multitude who long. 

 Lest aught should mar the rite, 

 In circle wide on every side. 

 Have kept the Steed in sight, 

 Contract their circle now, and drive him on. 

 Drawn in long files before the Temple-court, 

 The Rajah's archers flank an ample space ; 

 Here, moving onward still, they drive him near. 

 Then, opening, give him way to enter here. 



Behold him, how he starts and flings his headi 



On either side in glittering order spread. 

 The archers ranged in narrowing lines appear ; 

 The multitude behind close up the rear 

 With moon-like bend, and silently await 

 The awful end, 

 The rite that shall from Indra wrest his power. 

 Id front, with far-stretch'd walls, and many a tower 

 Turret and dome and pinnacle elate, 

 The huge Pagoda seems to load the land : 

 And there before the gate. 

 The Brahmin band expectant stand, 

 The axe is ready for Kehama's hand. 

 Hark ! at the Golden Palaces 

 The Brahmin strikes the time ! 

 One, two, three, four, a thrice-told chime. 

 And then again, one, two. 

 The bowl that in its vessel floats anew 

 Must fill and sink again. 

 Then will the final stroke be due. 

 The Sun rides high, the noon is nigh, 



And silently, as if spell-bound. 

 The multitude expect the sound. 



