And he was faint, and sick, and dry,
And bloodshot was his fev’rish eye;
And livid was his lip, while he
Sate silent in the tall Elm tree—
And parch’d his tongue; and quick his breath,
And his dark cheek, was cold as Death!
XI.
And now a Cottage low he sees,
The chimney smoke, ascending grey,
Floats lightly on the morning breeze