C A K 1 0 II.

XXIII.

They laid him in the earth, and on his breast,Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest,They found the scatter’d dints of many a scar,Which were not planted there in recent war;Where’er had pass’d his summer years of life,

Jt seems they vanish’d in a land of strife: l tyoBut all unknown his glory or his guilt,

These only told that somewhere blood was spilt,And Ezzclin, who might have spoke the past,Returned no more — that night appear d his last.

XXIV.

t-'pon that night ('a peasant’s is the tale)

A Serf that cross’d the intervening vale,

When Cynthia’s light almost gave way to morn,And inearly veil’d in mist her waning horn;

A Serf , that rose betimes to thread the wood, 1 >99And hew the bough that bought his children s lood.Pass’d'hv the river that divides the plainOf Otho’s lands and Lara’s broad domain:

He heard a tramp — a horse and horseman brokeF rom out the wood — before him was a cloakWrapt round some burthen at his saddle-bow.Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow.Bous’d by the sudden sight at such a lime,