An icy cold benumbs her limbs; she shakes;
Her cheeks the blood, her hand the web forsakes.
}
{ She runs the rampires round amidst the war,
{ Nor fears the flying darts: she rends her hair,
{ And fills with loud laments the liquid air.
"Thus, then, my loved Euryalus appears!
Thus looks the prop of my declining years!
Was't on this face my famished eyes I fed?
Ah! how unlike the living is the dead!