Another asks, with swelling heart,
When he shall whirl the lance and shield,
Which now his arm essays in vain to wield!
While thus his tardy youth he chides,
A third, with infant wile
Behind the ponderous armor hides
His soft seraphic smile.
Tears that the depths of bliss bespeak,
Roll down the monarch’s furrowed cheek;
His presence mid that lovely race