Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine,

Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies.

He stops—he starts—disdaining to decline:

Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries,

Without a groan, without a struggle dies.

The decorated car appears—on high

The corse is piled—sweet sight for vulgar eyes—[de] [94]

Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy,

Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by.