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Gebir
Walter Savage Landor

Page 97 of 97

His dying arm; it fell upon his breast:
Cold sweat and shivering ran o'er every limb,
His eyes grew stiff, he struggled and expired. 

Footnote: 

{1} "Ah, what avails the sceptred race,
Ah, what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine. 

"Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and sighs
I consecrate to thee." 

End of the Project Gutenberg eText Gebir 


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