And blest were he whose timely care should save
A heart so noble, e’en from glory’s grave.”
Roused by those accents, from his lowly bed
The dying warrior faintly lifts his head;
O’er Hamet’s mien, with vague uncertain gaze,
His doubtful glance awhile bewilder’d strays;
Till by degrees a smile of proud disdain
Lights up those features late convulsed with pain;
A quivering radiance flashes from his eye,
That seems too pure, too full of soul, to die;