XVIII.
But who was he that on his hunting-spear
Lean’d, with a prouder and more fiery bearing?
His was a brow for tyrant hearts to fear,
Within the shadow of its dark locks wearing
That which they may not tame—a soul declaring
War against earth’s oppressors. Midst that throng
Of other mould he seem’d, and loftier daring,
One whose blood swept high impulses along,
One that should pass, and leave a name for warlike song—