Thus passing from the dungeon to the grave,
While all is yet around thee which can give
A charm to earth, and make it bliss to live;
Thou on whose form hath dwelt a mother’s eye,
Till the deep love that not with thee shall die
Hath grown too full for utterance—Can it be!
And is this pomp of death prepared for thee?
Young, royal Conradin! who shouldst have known
Of life as yet the sunny smile alone!
Oh! who can view thee, in the pride and bloom