Page:Poems, Consisting Chiefly of Translations from the Asiatick Languages.djvu/42

 His spear, vain instrument of dying praise, On the rich floor with idle state he lays; His gory falchion near his pillow stood, And stain'd the ground with drops of purple blood; A busy page his nodding helm unlac'd, And on the couch his scaly hauberk plac'd: Now on the bed his weary limbs he throws, Bath'd in the balmy dew of soft repose: In dreams he rushes o'er the gloomy field, He sees new armies fly, new heroes yield; Warm with the vigorous conflict he appears, And ev'n in slumber seems to move the spheres. But lo! The faithless page, with stealing tread, Advances to the champion's naked head; With his sharp dagger wounds his bleeding breast, And steeps his eyelids in eternal rest: Then cries, (and waves the steel that drops with gore) "The tyrant dies; oppression is no more,"


 * Now came an aged fire with trembling pace;

Sunk were his eyes, and pale his ghastly face; A ragged weed of dusky hue he wore, And on his back a ponderous coffer bore.