XVI.
But for such holy rest strong hands must toil,
Strong hearts endure! By that pale elder’s side,
Stood one that seem’d a monarch of the soil,
Serene and stately in his manhood’s pride—
Werner,[231] the brave and true! If men have died
Their hearths and shrines inviolate to keep,
He was a mate for such. The voice that cried
Within his breast, “Arise!” came still and deep
From his far home, that smiled e’en then in moonlight sleep.