Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/78

 And ever, when the dream of night Renews the phantom to my sight, Cold sweat-drops gather on my limbs;
 * My ears throb hot; my eye-balls start;

My brain with horrid tumult swims:
 * Wild is the tempest of my heart;

And my thick and struggling breath Imitates the toil of Death! No stranger agony confounds
 * The Soldier on the war-field spread,

When all foredone with toil and wounds.
 * Death-like he dozes among heaps of dead!

(The strife is o'er, the day-light fled,
 * And the night-wind clamours hoarse!

See! the starting wretch's head
 * Lies pillow'd on a brother's corse!)

Not yet enslav'd, not wholly vile, O Albion! O my mother Isle! Thy vallies, fair as Eden's bowers, Glitter green with sunny showers; Thy grassy uplands' gentle swells
 * Echo to the bleat of flocks;