216 MYSTERIES:
The silver arrows that bedeck the birch
Shiver along the ground,
Priest, fiend, and harpy answer to the call,
And hasten to their ghastly festival.
There in the vale below my feet
I see the crew
Gather, blaspheming God, and greet
Their shame anew.
A feast is spread of some unholy meat;
Ofttimes there murmurs through
Their horrid ranks a cry of pain as God
Bids them keep memory of His iron rod.
The vale is black with priests. They fight,
Wild beasts, for food,
The orphan’s gold, the widow's right,
The virgin’s snood.
All in their maws are crammed within the night
That hides their chosen wood,
Where through the blackness sounds the sickening
noise
Of cannibals that gloat on monstrous joys.
The valley steams with slaughter. Here
Shall the pure snow
The bloody reek of murder rear
To crush the foe?
Like a mad giant shall the rocks spring clear
And smite the fiends below ?