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72 When every step that echoed by the gate,

Might entering lead where axe and stake await;

When every voice that grated on his ear

Might be the last that he could ever hear;

Could terror tame—that spirit stern and high

Had proved unwilling as unfit to die;

'Twas worn—perhaps decayed—yet silent bore

That conflict deadlier far than all before:

The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale.

Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail;

But bound and fix'd in fettered solitude,

To pine, the prey of every changing mood;

To gaze on thine own heart—and meditate

Irrevocable faults—and coming fate—

Too late the last to shun—the first to mend—

To count the hours that struggle to thine end,

With not a friend to animate and tell

To other ears that death became thee well;

Around thee foes to forge the ready lie,

And blot life's latest scene with calumny:

Before thee tortures, which the soul can dare,

Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may bear;