His fatal sign on the warrior's breast—
Quench'd is the light of the eagle-eye,
And the nervous limbs rest languidly—
The eloquent tongue is silent and still,
The deep clear voice again may not chill
The hearers' hearts with its own deep thrill.
Ah, who can gaze on death, nor inward feel
A creeping horror through the bosom steal,
Like one who stands upon a precipice,
And sees below a mangled sacrifice,