XXIII.

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 passed his summer years of life, It seems they vanished in a land of strife; 1190 But all unknown his Glory or his Guilt,[la] These only told that somewhere blood was spilt, And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past, Returned no more--that night appeared his last.