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A plume waved o'er the noble brow—the brow was fix'd and white;— He met at last his father's eyes—but in them was no sight!

Up from the ground he sprung, and gazed, but who could paint that gaze? They hush'd their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze; 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!—