XXVI.

Morn slowly rolls the clouds away; Few trophies of the fight are there: The shouts that shook the midnight-bay Are silent; but some signs of fray That strand of strife may bear, And fragments of each shivered brand; 1070 Steps stamped; and dashed into the sand The print of many a struggling hand May there be marked; nor far remote A broken torch, an oarless boat; And tangled on the weeds that heap The beach where shelving to the deep There lies a white capote! 'Tis rent in twain--one dark-red stain The wave yet ripples o'er in vain: But where is he who wore? 1080 Ye! who would o'er his relics weep, Go, seek them where the surges sweep Their burthen round Sigæum's steep And cast on Lemnos' shore: The sea-birds shriek above the prey, O'er which their hungry beaks delay,[hc] As shaken on his restless pillow, His head heaves with the heaving billow; That hand, whose motion is not life,[hd] Yet feebly seems to menace strife, 1090 Flung by the tossing tide on high, Then levelled with the wave--[184] What recks it, though that corse shall lie Within a living grave? The bird that tears that prostrate form Hath only robbed the meaner worm; The only heart, the only eye Had bled or wept to see him die, Had seen those scattered limbs composed, And mourned above his turban-stone,[185] 1100 That heart hath burst--that eye was closed-- Yea--closed before his own!