His steps he turned by that uncertain ray,
Where stretched along his sleeping warriors lay.
’Twas a strange sight! each swart and stalwart form,
So scarred and seared by warfare and by storm,
There seemingly lay lapped in such sweet rest,
As lulls the infant on its mother’s breast.
But when the form in deepest trance lies still
Most wildly wakes the fancy and the will,
And much of tumult hushed, and passion stern,
Who watched the unconscious sleepers might discern.