CANTO THE SECOND XXIII |
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CANTO THE SECONDXXIII
They laid him in the earth, and on his breast,
Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest,
They found the scattered dints of many a scar
Which were not planted there in recent war:
Where`er had pass`d his summer years of life,
It seems they vanish`d in a land of strife;
But all unknown his glory or his guilt,
These only told that somewhere blood was spilt.
And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past,
Return`d no more — that night appear`d his last.
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