CANTO THE SECOND XXVI |
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CANTO THE SECONDXXVI
Morn slowly rolls the clouds away;
Few trophies of the fight are there:
The shouts that shook the midnight-bay
Are silent; but some signs of fray
That strand of strife may bear,
And fragments of each shiver`d brand;
Steps stamp`d; and dash`d into the sand
The print of many a struggling hand
May there be mark`d; nor far remote
A broken torch, an oarless boat;
And tangled on the weeds that heap
The beach where shelving to the deep
There lies a white capote!
`Tis rent in twain — one dark-red stain
The wave yet ripples o`er in vain:
But where is he who wore?
Ye! who would o`er his relics weep,
Go, seek them where the surges sweep
Their burthen round Sigæum`s steep,
And cast on Lemnos` shore:
The sea-birds shriek above the prey,
O`er which their hungry beaks delay,
As shaken on his restless pillow,
His head heaves with the heaving billow;
That hand, whose motion is not life,
Yet feebly seems to menace strife,
Flung by the tossing tide on high,
Then levell`d with the wave —
What recks it, though that corse shall lie
Within a living grave?
The bird that tears that prostrate form
Hath only robb`d the meaner worm:
The only heart, the only eye
Had bled or wept to see him die,
Had seen those scatter`d limbs composed,
And mourn`d above his turban-stone,
That heart hath burst — that eye was closed —
Yea — closed before his own!
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