XVI.

'Tis Morn--and o'er his altered features play The beams--without the Hope of yesterday. What shall he be ere night? perchance a thing O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing, By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt; While sets that Sun, and dews of Evening melt, Chill, wet, and misty round each stiffened limb, Refreshing earth--reviving all but him!

CANTO THE THIRD.

"Come vedi--ancor non m'abbandona" Dante, _Inferno_, v. 105.