Darkness that seems to press upon the eyes,
A battle-field, and from its yet warm dead,
With talons dripping blood, the vultures rise.
A ghastly light leaps o'er the mountain-peaks,
Soon quakes the air 'neath hooves of spectral steeds,
Whose manes and fetlocks in the sky leave streaks
Of ruddy light, as onward swiftly speeds
The band of maidens whose bared breasts shed gleams
Like stars, as, sweeping o'er the dead-strewn plain,
With beckoning arms uplifted and with screams
They rouse the souls of noble warriors slain,
To bear them to the heaven which is the meed
Of every brave and warlike death or deed.