Morn slowly rolls the clouds away;

Few trophies of the fight are there:

The shouts that shook the midnight-bay

Are silent; but some signs of fray

That strand of strife may bear,

And fragments of each shivered brand;1070

Steps stamped; and dashed into the sand

The print of many a struggling hand

May there be marked; nor far remote

A broken torch, an oarless boat;

And tangled on the weeds that heap

The beach where shelving to the deep

There lies a white capote!

'Tis rent in twain—one dark-red stain

The wave yet ripples o'er in vain:

But where is he who wore?1080

Ye! who would o'er his relics weep,

Go, seek them where the surges sweep

Their burthen round Sigæum's steep

And cast on Lemnos' shore:

The sea-birds shriek above the prey,

O'er which their hungry beaks delay,[hc]

As shaken on his restless pillow,

His head heaves with the heaving billow;

That hand, whose motion is not life,[hd]

Yet feebly seems to menace strife,1090

Flung by the tossing tide on high,

Then levelled with the wave—[184]

What recks it, though that corse shall lie

Within a living grave?

The bird that tears that prostrate form

Hath only robbed the meaner worm;

The only heart, the only eye

Had bled or wept to see him die,

Had seen those scattered limbs composed,

And mourned above his turban-stone,[185]1100

That heart hath burst—that eye was closed—

Yea—closed before his own!