VIII.
But, badly wounded, what could I but weep
With rage and pity of my helplessness
And her misfortune! Could I only creep
A little nearer so that she might guess
I was not dead; that I my life would keep
But to avenge her!—Oh, the wild distress
Of that last moment when, half-dead, I saw
Them mount and bear her swooning through the shaw.