They might have chain’d him, as before that stony form he stood,
For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood.
“Father!” at length he murmur’d low, and wept like childhood then—
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!—
He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown,—
He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down.
Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow,
“No more, there is no more,” he said, “to lift the sword for now.—
My king is false, my hope betray’d, my father—oh! the worth,
The glory and the loveliness, are pass’d away from earth!