Fringilla. Richard Doddridge Blackmore

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           "Glorious Hapi," spake Piromis,

             Lifting high his weapon'd hand;

           "Earth thy footstool, heaven thy dome is,

             We the pebbles on thy strand.

           "Thou hast leaped the cubits twenty,

           Dowering us with peace and plenty;

           Mutha shows thee her retreat,

           And the desert licks thy feet,

           "We have passed through our purgation,

             Once again we are thy kin;

           God, accept our expiation,

             Maiden pure of mortal sin."

           "Ha!" the king cried, smiling blandly;

           "Ha!" the trumpets answered grandly.

           Proudly priest whirled, knife on high,

           While the maiden bowed—to die.

           Sudden, through the ranks beside her,

             Scattering men, like sparks of flint,

           Burst a snow-white horse and rider,

             Rapid as the lightning's glint.

           One blow hurls Arch-priest to quiver

           Headless, in his beloved river,

           In the twinkling of an eye,

           All the rest are dead, or fly.

           Iram, from Pyropus sweeping,

           As a mower swathes the rye,

           Caught his love, in terror sleeping,

           And her light form swings on high.