Might scarcely lift them; steep’d in bloody showers,
So heavily upon the pallid clay
Of the damp cheek they hung. The eyes’ dark ray,
Where was it? And the lips!—they gasp’d apart,
With their light curve, as from the chisel’s art,
Still proudly beautiful! But that white hue—
Was it not death’s?—that stillness—that cold dew
On the scarr’d forehead? No! his spirit broke
From its deep trance ere long, yet but awoke
To wander in wild dreams; and there he lay,