 | Erato, number I |  |
IV.
The Penitent's voice, long weak and low,Had died away to a mere, mere breath;
And his words came difficult and slow,
As drops at eve from an icicle flow,
When, gone the rays of the warming sun,
It drops, congeals—drops, congeals—and then is done!
And his eyes, though glazed, to Heaven were rais'd;
And his lips still moved, and his heart still prais'd.
Soon all was still:—then his icy breast
Once broke its unmoving and corpse-like rest;
Then a gasp for breath, and a low, deep moan,
And the Spirit of Life aloft had flown—
And the Penitent lay with Death.
| Erato, number I | |