Classic Poem

He could not sleep!—the couch of war,
Simple and rough beneath him spread,
Scared sleep away, and scattered far
The balm its influence might have shed.

He could not sleep! his temples, pressed
To the hard pillow, throbbed with pain;
The belt around his noble breast
His heart's wild pulse could scarce restrain.

And stretched in feverish unrest
Awake the great commander lay;
In vain the cooling night-wind kissed
His brow with its reviving play,

As through the open window streaming
All the fresh scents of night it shed,
And mingled with the moonlight, beaming
In broad clear lustre round his bed.

Out in the night Cirhala's water
Lifted its voice of swollen floods;
On its wild shores the bands of slaughter
Lay camped amid its savage woods.

Beneath the lonely Auberge's shelter
The Duke's rough couch that night was spread;
The sods of battle round him welter
In noble blood that morning shed;

And, gorged with prey, and now declining
From all the fire of glory won,
Watchful and fierce he lies repining
O'er what may never be undone.