Since man first pent his fellow-men
Like brutes within an iron den:
But what were these to us or him?
These wasted not his heart or limb;
My brother’s soul was of that mould 140
Which in a palace had grown cold,
Had his free breathing been denied
The range of the steep mountain’s side;
But why delay the truth?—he died.
I saw, and could not hold his head, 145