By Death’s moist finger. In that cold embrace
The chills of death creep o’er each trembling limb;
The noble form lies nearly motionless;
The friends around flit by as in a dream;
The throbbing heart grows cold; the speaking eye grows dim.
XIII.
Fever has done the work. He’s conquer’d now,
And driven from the field. And this may be,
This coldness—paleness—moisture on the brow,
May only be the price of victory.