His streaming beard shone in the ray, That slanted o'er his feeble frame; his front 170 Was furrowed.

To the sun's last light he cast A look of sorrow, then in silence bowed Before the conqueror of the world.

At once All, as in death, was still.

The victor chief Trembled, he knew not why; the trumpet ceased Its clangor, and the crimson streamer waved No more in folds insulting to the Lord Of the reposing world.

The pallid front Of the meek man seemed for a moment calm, Yet dark and thronging thoughts appeared to swell 180 His beating heart.