XXIV.

I see it still--the lofty mien thou borest! On thy pale forehead sat a sense of power-- The very look that once thou brightly worest, Cheering me onward through a fearful hour, When we were girt by Indian bow and spear, Midst the white Andes--even as mountain deer, Hemm’d in our camp; but through the javelin shower We rent our way, a tempest of despair! And thou--hadst thou but died with thy true brethren there!