And he—there’s laughter in his eye,
Joy in his voice—yet he must die!
I’ve borne him in these arms, that now
Are nerveless and unstrung;
And must I see, on that fair brow,
The dust untimely flung?
I must!—yon green oak, branch and crest,
Lies floating on the dark lake’s breast!
The noble boy!—how proudly sprung
The falcon from his hand!