Dismally wails, the senses chilling,
The hymn--the FURIES' solemn song;
And froze the very marrow thrilling
As roll'd the gloomy sounds along.

And weal to him--from crime secure--
Who keeps his soul as childhood's pure;
Life's path he roves, a wanderer free--
We near him not-THE AVENGERS, WE,
But woe to him for whom we weave
The doom for deeds that shun the light:
Fast to the murderer's feet we cleave,
The fearful Daughters of the Night.

"And deems he flight from us can hide him?
Still on dark wings We sail beside him!
The murderer's feet the snare enthralls--
Or soon or late, to earth he falls!
Untiring, hounding on, we go;
For blood can no remorse atone I
On, ever--to the Shades below,
And there--we grasp him, still our own!"

So singing, their slow dance they wreathe,
And stillness, like a silent death,
Heavily there lay cold and drear,
As if the Godhead's self were near.
Then, true to those strange rites of old,
Pacing the circle's solemn round,
In long and measured strides--behold,