82 HENRY KIRKE WHITE S TOEMS. 



Now he perhaps is reclined on a bed of down ; 



But if a wretch like hira sleeps in security, 



God of the red right arm ! where is thy thunderbolt ? 



THE EVE 01^ DEATH. 



Irregular. 



I. 

 Silence of Death — portentous calm, 



Those airy forms that yonder fly, 

 Denote that your void foreruns a storm, 



That the hour of fate is nigh. 

 I see, I see, on the dim mist borne, 



The Spirit of battles rear his crest ! 

 I see, I see, that ere the morn. 



His spear will forsake its hated rest, 

 And the widow'd wife of Larrendill will beat her naked 

 breast. 



O'er the smooth bosom of the sullen deep 



No softly-ruffling zephyrs fl}'' ; 

 But nature sleeps a deathless sleep. 



For the hour of battle is nigh. 

 Not a loose leaf waves on the dusky oak, 



But a creeping stillness reigns around ; 

 Except when the raven, with ominous croak, 



On the ear does unwelcomely sound, 

 I know, I know, what this silence means, 



I know what the raven saith — 

 Strike, oh, ye bards ! the melancholy harp, 



For this is the eve of death. 



II. 



Behold, how along the twilight air 



The shades of our fathers glide ? 

 There Morven fled, with the blood-drenchM hair, 



And Colma with gray side. 



