Here one, whose quivering eyelids shunned the light,
Seemed struggling with some phantom child of night;
Yon grimly smiling form we well may guess
In dreams anticipates revenge—redress!
And there be fingers wandering to the brand,
And the sheathed dagger meets the unconscious hand;
And some there be whose quick convulsive clasp
The long brown rifle strains with iron grasp.
VI.
Where through the window, opening o’er the glade,