DEATH WITHIN DEATH

THOU wilt not smite him, Israfel? Prone on his little couch he lies, With the death-shadow in his eyes. He thirsts, for what, I cannot tell. Thou wilt not smite him, Israfel? Thou must not smite him, Israfel. For all his race throbs in his fame, The sole hope of a noble name; That small hand like a tinted shell Holds high tradition, Israfel. Thou canst not smite him, Israfel. He turns his asking eyes on me. I am his sun and moon and sea; My life tides in his life-tides swell. Thou canst not smite him, Israfel. Since thou hast smitten, Israfel, Know this, thy sword so bitter keen Destroys a thing that might have been; Yet, smiting him, it was as well To kill my Soul, thou Israfel!