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The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 4. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier), Appendix (search)
e scalp torn off while each nerve could feel The wrenching hand and the jagged steel! And the old man groan'd—for he saw, again, The mangled corse of his kinsman slain, As it lay where his hand had hurled it then, At the shadow'd foot of that fearful glen! And it rose erect, with the death-pang grim, And pointed its bloodied finger at him! And his heart grew cold—and the curse of Cain Burn'd like a fire in the old man's brain. Oh, had he not seen that spectre rise On the blue of the cold Canadian skies? From the lakes which sleep in the ancient wood, It had risen to whisper its tale of blood, And follow'd his bark to the sombre shore, And glared by night through the wigwam door; And here, on his own familiar hill, It rose on his haunted vision still! Whose corse was that which the morrow's sun, Through the opening boughs, look'd calmly on? There were those who bent o'er that rigid face Who well in its darken'd lines might trace The features of him who, a traitor, fled From a brothe