Peopled the desart mountain? Still his Sire
Was slow of answer, and, in words obscure,
Varied the conversation. Still the mind
Of Henry ponder’d; for, in their lone hut,
A daily journal would Saint Hubert make
Of his long banishment: and sometimes speak
Of Friends forsaken, Kindred, massacred;—
Proud mansions, rich domains, and joyous scenes
For ever faded,—lost!
One winter time,