University of Virginia Library

XXVI.

He wakes, and in the dimness of that waking,
He deems the fearful dream and spectre, gone;
And laughs and trembles, ev'ry fibre shaking
While, from his giant form, the long breath breaking,
Relieves the almost suffocating spell,
That wrought upon him like a pang of hell!
And should the fearless champion be o'erthrown,
By idle fears, and shadowy things unknown?
He is again himself—and stands alone—
At least so deems he—till his sight more clear,
Reveals the horrible visitant more near—
Before him, standing in the garb he wore
Upon the bloody field, some hours before:
The light, the living light of life, was gone,
He stood, a form of life, but made of stone;
Moving no muscle, working no wand'ring look
Or glance, by ev'ry thing of life forsook—
A ghastly whiteness o'er his features spread,
Confirm'd the fearful aspect of the dead—
His sunken eye alone, had shook the soul,
And then so fixed, as if unmeant to roll—
So glaz'd, and glist'ning, as in that short time,
The worm had claim'd its own, and left its slime,
And foul'd the god-head's promise of high sway,
With putrid taint, and loathsomeness, and clay!
And, in that fearful moment of suspense,
Which lost, yet wrought to agony, each sense,
Upon the warrior's hand, like blistering flame,
That drove and dried the blood, as there it came
The spectre's long and bony finger fell—
Remov'd not thence, and resting as a spell—
That bound the victim in its coil of fear,
And froze and burnt, alternate and severe—
Transfix'd by horror, as at first he stood,
The warrior gaz'd, with thick and curdled blood,
Nor spoke, nor strove to speak, nor rais'd the hand,
So wont to fearful strife and fierce command,
But all impassive, near the Indian king,
He grows—a cold, unmeaning, living thing!