XV.
What pageant’s hour approach’d? The sullen gate
Of a strong ancient prison-house was thrown
Back to the day. And who, in mournful state,
Came forth, led slowly o’er its threshold-stone?
They that had learn’d, in cells of secret gloom,
How sunshine is forgotten! They to whom
The very features of mankind were grown
Things that bewilder’d! O’er that dazzled sight
They lifted their wan hands, and cower’d before the light!