His head grows fevered, and his pulse

The quick successive throbs convulse;

In vain from side to side he throws

His form, in courtship of repose;[ox]

Or if he dozed, a sound, a start

Awoke him with a sunken heart.

The turban on his hot brow pressed,

The mail weighed lead-like on his breast,

Though oft and long beneath its weight 340

Upon his eyes had slumber sate,

Without or couch or canopy,

Except a rougher field and sky[oy]

Than now might yield a warrior's bed,

Than now along the heaven was spread.

He could not rest, he could not stay

Within his tent to wait for day,[oz]

But walked him forth along the sand,

Where thousand sleepers strewed the strand.

What pillowed them? and why should he 350

More wakeful than the humblest be,

Since more their peril, worse their toil?

And yet they fearless dream of spoil;

While he alone, where thousands passed

A night of sleep, perchance their last,

In sickly vigil wandered on,

And envied all he gazed upon.