LXXVIII.
Yet life, though wounded sore, not wholly slain,
Merely obscured, and not extinguish'd, lies;
Her breath that stood at ebb, soon flows again,
Heaving her hollow breast with heavy sighs,
And light comes in and kindles up the gloom,
To light her spirit from its transient tomb.
LXXIX.
Then like the sun, awaken'd at new dawn,
With pale bewilder'd face she peers about,