The melancholy wretch had liv’d unseen
By all, save Henry, a lov’d, little Son
The partner of his sorrows. On the day
When Persecution, in the sainted guise
Of Liberty, spread wide its venom’d pow’r,
The brave, Saint Hubert, fled his Lordly home,
And, with his baby Son, the mountain sought.
Resolv’d to cherish in his bleeding breast
The secret of his birth, Ah! birth too high
For his now humbled state, from infancy