Nor that how very much he mourned, his dying sire should know;—
But the old man said, "My youngest born, the deepest grief is thine,"
And then the pent-up tears rained fast on the face of Geraldine.
IV.
"Lead out my steed—the Arab barb, which lately, in Almaine,
I won in single combat, from a Moorish lord of Spain,—
And bring my faulchion hither, with its waved Damascene blade,
In temper true, and sharpness keen as ever armourer made.
Thou seest, my son, this faulchion keen, that war-horse from the plain,
Thou hearest thy father's voice, which none may ever hear again;