For we were used to hunter's fare,130

130

And for the like had little care:

The milk drawn from the mountain goat

Was changed for water from the moat,

Our bread was such as captives' tears

Have moistened many a thousand years,

Since man first pent his fellow men

Like brutes within an iron den;

But what were these to us or him?

These wasted not his heart or limb;

My brother's soul was of that mould140

140

Which in a palace had grown cold,

Had his free breathing been denied

The range of the steep mountain's side;[14]

But why delay the truth?—he died.[20][e]

[20]

I saw, and could not hold his head,

Nor reach his dying hand—nor dead,—

 Prev. P 21/1007 next