Thomas Bower Peacock

WHEN rampant Murder earth stalks o'er,
     Breathing death-blighting far and nigh,
Hills, wolds, all things, the wound feel sore
     And in distress to th' Eternal cry.
Wild Anger rises from his rest
     Shakes off the drowsy web of sleep ;
Now fiercest passions him invest,
     And o'er his swollen body creep.
And Vengeance dons his robes blood-red,
     Calls to clouds which sympathetic be,
That, moving on, mourn for the dead—
     Souls hurl'd from time to eternity.
Are th' midnight, crime-stained deeds of woe,
     Of wandering fiends which naught appease,
Are Hell's dark nameless deeds more low
     Than th' Drum Creek Bender tragedies ?
The moon grieves o'er the silent dead,
     In pity gazes th' sad-eyed star;
Where deep death-cries the wild air fed,
     With silence they yet seem to war.
The spirit o'er the grave doth weep,
     For its dead body hidden there.
Shrouds rustle ! 'gainst death's untim'd sleep
     Rebelling, moves the corse in its despair !
Whoe'er struck much the harmless flint
     And brought not forth the venom'd fire ?
Just Nemesis ! arise, nor stint
     The vengeance of thy fatal ire !