XVIII.

"The sun was sinking--still I lay Chained to the chill and stiffening steed! I thought to mingle there our clay;[271] And my dim eyes of death had need, No hope arose of being freed. I cast my last looks up the sky, And there between me and the sun[272] I saw the expecting raven fly, 770 Who scarce would wait till both should die, Ere his repast begun;[273] He flew, and perched, then flew once more, And each time nearer than before; I saw his wing through twilight flit, And once so near me he alit I could have smote, but lacked the strength; But the slight motion of my hand, And feeble scratching of the sand, The exerted throat's faint struggling noise, 780 Which scarcely could be called a voice, Together scared him off at length. I know no more--my latest dream Is something of a lovely star Which fixed my dull eyes from afar, And went and came with wandering beam, And of the cold--dull--swimming--dense Sensation of recurring sense, And then subsiding back to death, And then again a little breath, 790 A little thrill--a short suspense, An icy sickness curdling o'er My heart, and sparks that crossed my brain-- A gasp--a throb--a start of pain, A sigh--and nothing more.