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Of the land's knighthood perish'd; he, of whom I speak, a weeping boy, whose innocent tears Melted a thousand hearts that dared not aid, Stood by the scaffold, with extended arms, Calling upon his father, whose last look Turn'd full on him its parting agony. That father's blood gush'd o'er him!—and the boy Then dried his tears, and, with a kindling eye, And a proud flush on his young cheek, look'd up To the bright heaven.—Doth he remember still That bitter hour?

He bears a sheathless sword! —Call on the orphan when revenge is nigh.

Our band shows gallantly—but there are men Who should be with us now, had they not dared In some wild moment of festivity To give their full hearts way, and breathe a wish For freedom!—and some traitor—it might be A breeze perchance—bore the forbidden sound To Eribert:—so they must die—unless Fate, (who at times is wayward) should select Some other victim first!—But have they not Brothers or sons amongst us?

Look on me! I have a brother, a young high-soul'd boy, And beautiful as a sculptor's dream, with brow That wears, amidst its dark rich curls, the stamp Of inborn nobleness. In truth, he is A glorious creature!—But his doom is seal'd With their's of whom you spoke; and I have knelt—