In stammering dread of death--

Aye! even as a king,

Who, having from death's hand,

Received his crown and kingdom,

For ever treads in terror of the hour

When death shall jog his elbow,

Twitch the purple from his shoulders,

And claim again the borrowed crown.

But, little need have I to fear

The crouching, lean camp-follower,

Unto whose ever-gaping maw,

Day after day, I flung

The spoils of bow and arrow,

Ere I was taken captive--

I, who have often, at my mother's breast,

Awakened in the night-time,

To see death leering on me from the cave-mouth,

A gaunt and slinking shape

That snuffed the dying embers,

Blotting out the friendly stars--

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