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.