With his graceful hair all soil’d and torn,
And a gloom on the lids of his darken’d eye,
And a gash on his bosom—he came to die!
He look’d for the face to his young heart sweet,
And found it, and sank at his mother’s feet.
“Speak to me! whence doth the swift blood run
What hath befallen thee, my child, my son?”
The mist of death on his brow lay pale,
But his voice just linger’d to breathe the tale,
Murmuring faintly of wrongs and scorn,