ALEXANDER AND PHILLIP.
313
And weariness bow'd down the strong,
And heat closed every eye;
And the victor stood by the river's brim
Whose coolness seem'd but made for him.
The cypress spread their gloom
Like a cloak from the noontide beam,
He flung back his dusty plume,
And plunged in the silver stream;
He plunged like the young steed, fierce and wild,
He was borne away like the feeble child.
They took the king to his tent
From the river's fatal banks,
A cry of terror went
Like a storm through the Grecian ranks:
