See! where his ironed hoof has dashed a sod
With the velocity of lightning. Ah!—
He rises,—triumphs;—yes, the victory's his!
No—the wrestler Death again has thrown him
And—oh! with what a murdering dreadful fall!
Soft!—he is quiet. Yet whence came that groan,
Was't from his chest, or from the throat of death
Exulting in his conquest! I know not,
But if 'twas his, it surely was his last;
For see, he scarcely stirs! Soft! Does he breathe?