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My image may be with them as of one Who held such sympathy with aught of thine.

Sweetest, no more of this: my youth hath pass'd In harsh and rugged warfare, not the scenes Of young knights with white plumes, and gallant steeds, With lady's favour on each burnish'd crest, Whose tournaments, in honour of fair dames, May furnish tales to suit the maiden's ear. I've had no part in such; I only know Of war the terrible reality:— The long night-watch beneath the driving snow:— The unsoothed pillow, where the strong man lay Like a weak child, by weary sickness worn