Stop the struggling, my madman, and tell us your choice—”
“I give my parole.” ’Twas a musical voice,
With a rather thin treble. Conceive my annoy
When I found I had wasted my strength on a boy.
’Twas a boy of sixteen, with his lip free of down,
Whose ball cut a groove ’twixt my temple and crown,
And who handled his sabre as deftly and keen
As a master of fence. Yes, a boy of sixteen.
And I said, as I looked on him there where he stood,
Defiant, though conquered, and dauntless in mood,