Yet it easiest seems Where death in these Thessalian fields abounds To raise a single corpse.

From dead men's lips Scarce cold, in fuller accents falls the voice; Not from some mummied flame in accents shrill Uncertain to the ear." Thus spake the hag And through redoubled night, a squalid veil Swathing her pallid features, stole among Unburied carcases.

Fast fled the wolves, The carrion birds with maw unsatisfied Relaxed their talons, as with creeping step She sought her prophet.

Firm must be the flesh As yet, though cold in death, and firm the lungs Untouched by wound.

Now in the balance hung The fates of slain unnumbered; had she striven Armies to raise and order back to life Whole ranks of warriors, the laws had failed Of Erebus; and, summoned up from Styx, Its ghostly tenants had obeyed her call, And rising fought once more.