When his dungeon light looked dim and red
On the high-born blood of a martyr slain,
No anthem was sung at his holy death-bed;
No weeping was there when his bosom bled,
And his heart was rent in twain.
Oh! it was not thus when his ashen spear
Was true to that knight forlorn,
And hosts of a thousand were scattered like deer,
At the sound of the hunter’s horn!
When he strode o’er the wreck of each well-fought field,