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BERNARDO DEL CAPRIO.
87
The voice, the glance, the heart I sought—give answer, where are they?—
If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay!
"Into these glassy eyes put light,—be still! keep down thine ire,—
Bid these white lips a blessing speak—this earth is not my sire!
Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed,—
Thou canst not—and a king?—His dust be mountains on thy head!"
He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell,—upon the silent face
He cast one long, deep, troubled look,—then turn'd from that sad place:
