His heraldry is but a broken bow,
His history but a tale of wrong and wo,
His very name must be a blank.
[p16]
XXI.
Cold, with the beast he slew, he sleeps;
O’er him no filial spirit weeps;
No crowds throng round, no anthem-notes ascend,
To bless his coming and embalm his end;
Even that he lived, is for his conqueror’s tongue,
By foes alone his death-song must be sung;