VII.

I said my nearer brother pined, I said his mighty heart declined, He loathed and put away his food; It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, For we were used to hunter's fare, 130 And for the like had little care: The milk drawn from the mountain goat Was changed for water from the moat, Our bread was such as captives' tears Have moistened many a thousand years, 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;[14] But why delay the truth?--he died.[e] I saw, and could not hold his head, Nor reach his dying hand--nor dead,-- Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, To rend and gnash my bonds in twain.[f] He died--and they unlocked his chain, And scooped for him a shallow grave[15] 150 Even from the cold earth of our cave. I begged them, as a boon, to lay His corse in dust whereon the day Might shine--it was a foolish thought, But then within my brain it wrought,[16] That even in death his freeborn breast In such a dungeon could not rest. I might have spared my idle prayer-- They coldly laughed--and laid him there: The flat and turfless earth above 160 The being we so much did love; His empty chain above it leant, Such Murder's fitting monument!