Its deathlike torpor vanish’d—and its doom,
To cast its own dark hues o’er life and nature’s bloom.
XVII.
And such his lot whom thou hast loved and left,
Spirit! thus early to thy home recall’d!
So sinks the heart, of hope and thee bereft,
A warrior’s heart, which danger ne’er appall’d.
Years may pass on—and, as they roll along,
Mellow those pangs which now his bosom rend;
And he once more, with life’s unheeding throng,