The Race Of Banquo.

A poem by Robert Southey

Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!
Leave thy guilty sire to die.
O'er the heath the stripling fled,
The wild storm howling round his head.
Fear mightier thro' the shades of night
Urged his feet, and wing'd his flight;
And still he heard his father cry
Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly.

Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly
Leave thy guilty sire to die.
On every blast was heard the moan
The anguish'd shriek, the death-fraught groan;
Loathly night-hags join the yell
And see--the midnight rites of Hell.

Forms of magic! spare my life!
Shield me from the murderer's knife!
Before me dim in lurid light
Float the phantoms of the night--
Behind I hear my Father cry,
Fly, son of Banquo--Fleance, fly!

Parent of the sceptred race,
Fearless tread the circled space:
Fearless Fleance venture near--
Sire of monarchs--spurn at fear.

Sisters with prophetic breath
Pour we now the dirge of Death!

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