 | The Fate of Adelaide |  |
IV.
Most heavily this blight fell on the heartOf Ethlin's Lord. Ernest had been his pride;
On whom each bosom hope had built its throne;
With what proud joy the warrior sire had mark'd
The promise of his boyhood, when a child,
A very infant in his nurse's arms,
His eye would sparkle at the trumpet's voice,
And his young cheek grow red, when tales were told
Of glorious battle and heroic deeds!
It came, the wish'd-for time, and Ernest took
His father's sword, and sought the fields of war.
When Europe pour'd her thousands on the East,
That sword was claim'd by no unworthy hand:
12
It was a hero's still! But all too soon;
Cropt in his spring of glory, Ernest fell.—
In that lone moment, when all earthly ties
More fond, more holy, twine around the heart,
He thought upon his home; and in that thought
There was a chill more terrible than death.
He gaz'd upon the chief, who knelt beside,
And cool'd his burning lips with the fresh spring,
And held his dying brow—“Orlando, we
Together sought these fatal plains, and still
Our course has been together, and our swords
Have been as one: oh! by thy love for me,
And by thy faith, let not my ashes mix
With this accursed earth; but let them rest
Their last sad sleep in my own Switzerland!
My spirit would not slumber in a grave,
On which a father's blessing was not breath'd—
That was not moisten'd by my sister's tears.
13
Was such as well became a hero's child!”
| The Fate of Adelaide | |