XXXII

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XXXII

Well, if your pistol ball by chance

The comrade of your youth should strike,

Who by a haughty word or glance

Or any trifle else ye like

You o’er your wine insulted hath⁠—

Or even overcome by wrath

Scornfully challenged you afield⁠—

Tell me, of sentiments concealed

Which in your spirit dominates,

When motionless your gaze beneath

He lies, upon his forehead death,

And slowly life coagulates⁠—

When deaf and silent he doth lie

Heedless of your despairing cry?