CXLVII.

For still he lay, and on his thin worn cheek A purple hectic played like dying day On the snow-tops of distant hills; the streak Of sufferance yet upon his forehead lay, Where the blue veins looked shadowy, shrunk, and weak; And his black curls were dewy with the spray, Which weighed upon them yet, all damp and salt, Mixed with the stony vapours of the vault.