THE YOUNG AVENGER.
173
Yet breathed he never wish to take in glorious strife his part,
And shame and grief his backwardness was to that father's heart.
Cold, silent, stern, he let time pass, until he rush'd one day,
Where mouming o'er his waste of youth the weary chieftain lay.
Unarm'd he was, but in his grasp he bore a heavy brand,
"My father, I can wield this sword; now knighthood at thine hand.
For years no hour of quiet sleep upon my eyelids came,
For Nourreddin had poison'd all my slumber with his fame.
