Cooled by the lake and scented by the trees,
His small hand resting on his dagger’s hilt,
Whose blade may yet retain its last red gilt,
With careful gaze he scans the darkening scene,
Marks each faint motion of the foliage green,
Or turns at times his flashing full gray eye,
To where the stars hang brightening o’er the sky.
Why waits he here when all the rest are deep
In the void realms of weird, mysterious sleep?
What thought—what scene doth hope or memory trace,