The stifled Princes sweet and pale,
Athwart his dim pavilion strode—
His heart of iron did not quail.
Though from beneath Gehenna stirred,
And sent its legions to the fray,
The war-cry from his lips was heard,
Like blast of bugle far away.
Girt lion-like with countless foes—
On earth, in heaven, without a friend—
With clenching teeth and gathered brows