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He stood, the fetters on his hand,— He raised them haughtily; And had that grasp been on the brand, It could not wave on high With freer pride than it waved now. Around he looked with changeless brow On many a torture nigh: The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel, And, worst of all, his own red steel.

I saw him once before; he rode Upon a coal-black steed, And tens of thousands thronged the road And bade their warrior speed. His helm, his breastplate, were of gold, And graved with many a dint that told Of many a soldier's deed;