TRACY DE VORE AND HUBERT GREY.
Thrown wildly back, his clotted hair
Leaves his gash'd forehead, red and bare.
Look on his cheek—his dauntless brow
There's blood, warm blood, upon them now!
His hand is clench'd with stiffen'd clasp;
The wild flowers still within its grasp;
Leaves his gash'd forehead, red and bare.
Look on his cheek—his dauntless brow
There's blood, warm blood, upon them now!
His hand is clench'd with stiffen'd clasp;
The wild flowers still within its grasp;
The vulture, perch'd upon the crag,
Seems waiting for its prey;
The vulture that at morning's light,
His halloo scared away.
Seems waiting for its prey;
The vulture that at morning's light,
His halloo scared away.
Stretch'd like a lion-cub he lies;
As free he lived, as lonely dies;
The mountain-born; the free, the brave;
Too soon hath found a mountain-grave.
As free he lived, as lonely dies;
The mountain-born; the free, the brave;
Too soon hath found a mountain-grave.
And many an eye shall weep his fate;
And many a heart shall rue the day:
For a brighter being ne'er had life
Than the herdsman's son; young Hubert Grey.
And Tracy de Vore, the Baron's heir,
The meek; the cherub-like; the fair:
He is sinking to eternal rest;
Soft pillow'd on his mother's breast;
He knows not that his lowly mate
Has met so terrible a fate.
And many a heart shall rue the day:
For a brighter being ne'er had life
Than the herdsman's son; young Hubert Grey.
And Tracy de Vore, the Baron's heir,
The meek; the cherub-like; the fair:
He is sinking to eternal rest;
Soft pillow'd on his mother's breast;
He knows not that his lowly mate
Has met so terrible a fate.
No dark convulsion shakes his frame;
No change comes o'er his face:
The icy hand hath touch'd his heart;
But left no scathing trace.
No change comes o'er his face:
The icy hand hath touch'd his heart;
But left no scathing trace.
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