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!