With famish’d Wolves the peaks among
Their dismal chorus yelling!
“O Jesu Save me!” Golfre shriek’d—
But Golfre shriek’d no more!
The rosy dawn’s returning light
Display’d his corse,—a dreadful sight,
Black, wither’d, smear’d with gore!
High on a gibbet, near the wood—
His mangled limbs were hung;
Yet Zorietto oft was seen