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What mother's eyes have watch'd in rosy sleep Till joy, for very fulness, turn'd to weep, Thus changed!—a fearful thing! His golden crest Was shiver'd, and the bright scarf on his breast— Some costly love-gift—rent:—but what of these? There were the clustering raven-locks—the breeze As it came in thro' lime and myrtle flowers, Might scarcely lift them steep'd in bloody showers So heavily upon the pallid clay Of the damp cheek they hung! the eye's dark ray— Where was it?—and the lips!—they gasp'd apart, With their light curve, as from the chisel's art, Still proudly beautiful! but that white hue— Was it not death’s?—that stillness—that cold dew On the scarr'd forehead? No! his spirit broke From its deep trance ere long, yet but awoke To wander in wild dreams; and there he lay, By the fierce fever as a green reed shaken, The haughty chief of thousands—the forsaken