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O'er the clear brow of youth?—It may but be An idle thought, but I have dreamed thou wert A captive in thy hopelessness: afar From the sweet home of thy young infancy, Whose image unto thee is as a dream Of fire and slaughter, I can see thee wasting, Sick for thy native air, loathing the light And cheerfulness of men; thyself the last Of all thy house, a stranger and a slave!