Dark, brooding, melancholy, and alone,
Beast-like, the ruffian plundered, prowled and slew,
Without a rival or compeer to own
His fellowship ; all shuddered in his view.
Like to a tiger whose fierce maw once drew
The life-blood from some shrieking unaware,
And ever after’s thirsty to renew
The baleful draught ; still watching from his lair,
Where fetid bones, half-gnawed, pollute and plague the air.
Thus seemed the human monster ; he had swilled
His godless hands full oft in human gore :
It was a pastime— horrid, grim, but filled
His fiendish longing restlessness for more.
It joyed the tiger’s instinct in his core ;
Or devil’s impulse that delighted in
Such deeds as man bad never done before ;
That sighed to top the summit of all sin
Which man hath scaled, where devildom can but begin. Continue reading Spotlight: Morgan, the Bushranger (Poem; 15 April 1865)