In his own person of injurious wrong,
Piercing his very bosom’s inmost core,
Was, if the tale was brought him that among
Us, his dear children, there had strife upsprung,
As sometimes did—for grief is quick and wild,—
Then left he not, till we were reconciled.”
XXVII.
—Beside the Prince might only one remain
In that unlighted vault the livelong night:
Its earlier watches seemed of restless pain,