Day glimmers on the dying and the dead,

The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head; 1040

The war-horse masterless is on the earth,[kt] [284]

And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth;

And near, yet quivering with what life remained,

The heel that urged him and the hand that reined;

And some too near that rolling torrent lie,[ku]

Whose waters mock the lip of those that die;

That panting thirst which scorches in the breath

Of those that die the soldier's fiery death,

In vain impels the burning mouth to crave

One drop—the last—to cool it for the grave; 1050

With feeble and convulsive effort swept,

Their limbs along the crimsoned turf have crept;

The faint remains of life such struggles waste,

But yet they reach the stream, and bend to taste:

They feel its freshness, and almost partake—

Why pause? No further thirst have they to slake—

It is unquenched, and yet they feel it not;

It was an agony—but now forgot!