Was wasting rapidly; the biting gale
Pierc’d the thin texture of his narrow cell;
And Silence, like a fearful centinel
Marking the peril which awaited near,
Conspir’d with sullen Night, to wrap the scene
In tenfold horrors. Thrice he rose; and thrice
His feet recoil’d; and still the livid flame
Lengthen’d and quiver’d as the moaning wind
Pass’d thro’ the rushy crevice, while his heart
Beat, like the death-watch, in his shudd’ring breast.