XIV.

But I was roused--and how? It is no tale, Even midst _thy_ shades, thou wilderness! to tell. I would not have my boy’s young cheek made pale, Nor haunt his sunny rest with what befell In that drear prison-house. His eye must grow More dark with thought, more earnest his fair brow, More high his heart in youthful strength must swell; So shall it fitly burn when all is told: Let childhood’s radiant mist the free child yet enfold.