Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/207

Rh He only lov'd, too well, his hapless friend:

Spare, spare, ye Chiefs! from him your rage remove;

His fault was friendship, all his crime was love."

He pray'd in vain; the dark assassin's sword

Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gor'd;

Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest,

And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast:

As some young rose whose blossom scents the air,

Languid in death, expires beneath the share;

Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower,

Declining gently, falls a fading flower;

Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head,

And lingering Beauty hovers round the dead.

But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide,

Revenge his leader, and Despair his guide;

Volscens he seeks amidst the gathering host,

Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost;

Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe;

Rage nerves his arm, Fate gleams in every blow;

In vain beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds,

Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds;

In viewless circles wheel'd his falchion flies,

Nor quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies;

Deep in his throat its end the weapon found,

The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound.