XV.

What pageant’s hour approach’d? The sullen gate Of a strong ancient prison-house was thrown Back to the day. And who, in mournful state, Came forth, led slowly o’er its threshold-stone? They that had learn’d, in cells of secret gloom, How sunshine is forgotten! They to whom The very features of mankind were grown Things that bewilder’d! O’er that dazzled sight They lifted their wan hands, and cower’d before the light!