Alone and unallied. Why, what’s alone?
A word whose sense is—free!—Ay, free from all
The venom’d stings implanted in the heart
By those it loves. Oh! I could laugh to think
O’ th’ joy that riots in baronial halls,
When the word comes—“A son is born!”—A son!
They should say thus—“He that shall knit your brow
To furrows, not of years—and bid your eye
Quail its proud glance to tell the earth its shame,
Is born, and so rejoice!” Then might we feast,