Wore man’s mute anguish sternly;—but of one,
Oh, who shall speak? What words his brow unveil?
A father following to the grave his son!—
That is no grief to picture! Sad and slow,
Through the wood-shadows, moved the knightly train,
With youth’s fair form upon the bier laid low—
Fair even when found amidst the bloody slain,
Stretch’d by its broken lance. They reach’d the lone
Baronial chapel, where the forest-gloom
Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown