'T is all in vain!—but no, there, over there
A hollow lies—a glen—a deep ravine—
There runs a brook; quick, quick, ere burst my veins.
E'en now I can behold the sun's reflex
Upon its waters; onward, ever onward!—
Ah!—it is blood,—red blood, red human blood
Whose purple tide rolls shattered limbs and skulls
And glaring weapons from a battle-field.
How they do toss and strive, these ghastly bones.
As if the combat's wrath were still in them!
There floats a snow-white arm; how it extends
Its fingers! ah! it grasps, it seizes me;
Away from out these horrors' sight, away!
Duque.
I pray thee, wake him: e'en to hear his dream.
To see him writhe, congeals my blood with terror.
Prado.
I cannot, will I not incur his wrath;
He oft dreams so. See, he begins anew.
Santa Anna.
[Laboring under still more violent convulsions than before.]
Ha! still I live ! What change in me and nature!
Instead of stifling heat, as erst, now creeps
An icy chill through every limb of mine,
While over me a midnidit-blackness veils
