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The Two Chickens. 73
The victor stood still—all his anger was fled,
And his heart beat in piteous woe,
“Oh, brother, dear brother, where are you?” he
said—
No answer there came from below!
He bent o’er the edge, by that dark disma! door,
And he cried, and he moaned all in vain,
“Come back, and we never will fight any more!”
’Twas no use—for his brother was slain.
* * * * * *
’Tis a picture for us, who in anger and strife
Strike blows we too late repent sore,
And bitterly then do we mourn a lost life,
As we stand by death’s dark dismal door.
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