’Till his firm grasp he felt, while cold
Down his pale cheek the big drop roll’d;
Then, struggling to be free, he gave—
A deep wound to the Lascar Slave.
VII.
And now he groan’d, by pain opprest,
And now crept onward, sad and slow:
And while he held his bleeding breast,
He feebly pour’d the plaint of woe!
“What have I done?” the Lascar cried—