VII.
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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, 130And for the like had little care:The milk drawn from the mountain goatWas changed for water from the moat,Our bread was such as captives' tearsHave moistened many a thousand years,Since man first pent his fellow menLike 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 140Which in a palace had grown cold,Had his free breathing been deniedThe 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] 150Even from the cold earth of our cave.I begged them, as a boon, to layHis corse in dust whereon the dayMight shine--it was a foolish thought,But then within my brain it wrought,[16]That even in death his freeborn breastIn 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 160The being we so much did love;His empty chain above it leant,Such Murder's fitting monument!
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