XVIII.

But who was he that on his hunting-spear Lean’d, with a prouder and more fiery bearing? His was a brow for tyrant hearts to fear, Within the shadow of its dark locks wearing That which they may not tame--a soul declaring War against earth’s oppressors. Midst that throng Of other mould he seem’d, and loftier daring, One whose blood swept high impulses along, One that should pass, and leave a name for warlike song--