Chapter XXX

Where are the mighty?--morning finds them not!
I call--and echo gives response alone;
The fiery bolt of Ruin hath been shot,
The blow is struck--the winds of death have blown!
Cold are the hearths--their altars overthrown:
For them with smoking venison the board,
Reward of toilsome chase, no more will groan;
Sharper than hatchet proved the conqueror's sword,
And blood, in fruitless strife, like water they outpoured.