That knightly brow, with laurels freshly bound!
Yet he cared not for crowds—this wrestler strong;
If down the arena swept some warm, wild breath
Of his People’s praise—this bore his soul along,
This came with sweetness in the midst of death,
For love was more to him than crown or wreath.
Ah! half her Sun is stricken from the South,
Since he is dead—her tropic-hearted one,—
Will the pomegranate flower’s vivid mouth
Open to drink the dews when Frost is done?