His hand to clutch a little bread,
That a white angel with a torch,
Among the living and the dead,
Seem’d bearing, smiling as he went:
The vision waked him, as he spied
The post-boy follow’d by a crowd
Of famish’d prisoners, who cried
For letters—letters from their friends.
Crawling upon his hands and knees,
He hears his own name call’d, and, lo!