XIII |
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XIII
His head grows fever`d, and his pulse
The quick successive throbs convulse;
In vain from side to side he throws
His form, in courtship of repose;
Or if he dozed, a sound, a start
Awoke him with a sunken heart.
The turban on his hot brow press`d,
The mail weigh`d lead-like on his breast,
Though oft and long beneath its weight
Upon his eyes had slumber sate,
Without or couch or canopy,
Except a rougher field and sky
Than now might yield a warrior`s bed,
Than now along the heaven was spread.
He could not rest, he could not stay
Within his tent to wait for day,
But walk`d him forth along the sand,
Where thousand sleepers strew`d the strand.
What pillow`d them? and why should he
More wakeful than the humblest be?
Since more their peril, worse their toil,
And yet they fearless dream of spoil;
While he alone, where thousands pass`d
A night of sleep, perchance their last,
In sickly vigil wander`d on,
And envied all he gazed upon.
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