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And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
A SPIRIT passed before me: I beheld
The face of Immortality unveiled
Deep sleep came down on ev'ry eye save mine
And there it stood, all formless—but divine:
Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake;
And as my damp hair stiffened, thus it spake:
“ Is man more just than God? Is man more pure
“ Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure?
“ Creatures of clay-vain dwellers in the dust! “ The moth survives you, and are ye more just?
Things of a day! you wither ere the night, “ Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light!"