That almost made the dungeon bright, 195
And not a word of murmur—not
A groan o’er his untimely lot—
A little talk of better days,
A little hope my own to raise,
For I was sunk in silence—lost 200
In this last loss, of all the most;
And then the sighs he would suppress,
Of fainting nature’s feebleness,
More slowly drawn, grew less and less;