But 't was a transient tremor:—with a spring

Upon the Russian steel his breast he flung,

As carelessly as hurls the moth her wing

Against the light wherein she dies: he clung

Closer, that all the deadlier they might wring,

Unto the bayonets which had pierced his young;

And throwing back a dim look on his sons,

In one wide wound poured forth his soul at once.