Reclining on his strawy bed,

His hand upholds his drooping head—

His bloodless cheek is seam’d and hard,

Unshorn his gray, neglected beard;

And o’er his bony fingers flow

His long, dishevell’d locks of snow.

No grateful fire before him glows,—

And yet the winter’s breath is chill:

And o’er his half-clad person goes

The frequent ague-thrill!