Classic Poem

The wild-wing'd creature, clad in gore,
(His bloody human meal being o'er,)
 Comes down to the water's brink:
'Tis the first time he there hath gazed,
And straighThe shrinks—alarm'd—amazed,
 And dares not drink.

“Have I till now,” he sadly said,
“Preyed on my brother's blood, and made
 His flesh my meal to-day?”
Once more he glances in the brook,
And once more sees his victim's look;
 Then turns away.

With such sharp pain as human hearts
May feel, the drooping thing departs
 Unto the dark wild wood;
And, there, 'midst briars and sheltering weeds,
He hideth his remorse, and feeds
 No more on blood.

And in that weedy brake he lies,
And pines, and pines, until he dies:
 And when all's o'er,——
What follows?—Nought! his brothers slake
Their thirst in blood in that same brake,
 Fierce as before!

So Fable flows!—But would you find
Its moral wrought in human kind,
 Its tale made worse;
Turn straight to Man , and in his fame
And forehead read “ The Harpy's name;
 But no remorse!