Back to her open’d arms he flew,
Press’d on her lips a fond adieu—
“Alas!” she sobb’d,—“and yet, begone,
And speed thee forth, like Duncan’s son!”
One look he cast upon the bier,
Dash’d from his eye the gathering tear,
Breathed deep to clear his laboring breast,
And toss’d aloft his bonnet crest,
Then, like the high-bred colt, when, freed,
First he essays his fire and speed,