XXIV.
I see it still—the lofty mien thou borest!
On thy pale forehead sat a sense of power—
The very look that once thou brightly worest,
Cheering me onward through a fearful hour,
When we were girt by Indian bow and spear,
Midst the white Andes—even as mountain deer,
Hemm’d in our camp; but through the javelin shower
We rent our way, a tempest of despair!
And thou—hadst thou but died with thy true brethren there!