“It is—my own,” he cried, and clasped him to his soul.
XIV.
“Yes! thou recall’st my pride of years, for then
The bowstring of my spirit was not slack,
When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambushed men,
I bore thee like the quiver on my back,
Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack;
Nor foeman then, nor cougar’s[48] crouch I feared,
For I was strong as mountain cataract:
And dost thou not remember how we cheered,