FABLES OF FLORA. 17 
The offering’s on the mystic stone 
Pensive I laid, in thought protound ; 
When from the cave a deepening groan 
Issued, and froze me to the ground. 
I hear it still! Dost thou not hear? 
Does not thy haunted fancy start? 
The sound still vibrates through my ear— 
The horror rushes on my heart. 
Unlike to living sounds it came, 
Unmixed, unmelodized with breath; 
But, grinding through some scrannel frame, 
Creaked from the bony lungs of death. 
I hear it still! ‘ Depart! ’ it cries ; 
‘ No tribute bear to shades unblest; 
Know here a bloody Druid lies, 
Who was not nursed at Nature’s breast. 
‘ Associate he with demons dire, 
O’er human victims held the knife, 
And, pleased to see the babe expire, 
Smiled grimly o’er its quivering life 
‘ Behold his crimson-streaming hand 
Erect! his dark, fixed, murderous eye!’ 
In the dim cave I saw him stand; 
And my heart died—I felt it die. 
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