11
He was gone from them, and the gates of death
Had clos'd for ever on their earthly love.
IV.
Most heavily this blight fell on the heart
Of 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:
