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I sought the forum, there was one With dark and haughty brow,— His voice was as the trumpet's tone, Mine ear rings with it now.

They quailed before his flashing eye,— They watched his lightest word,— When suddenly that eye was dim, That voice no longer heard.

I looked upon his lonely hour, The weary solitude; When over dark and bitter thoughts The sick heart's left to brood.

I marked the haughty spirit's strife To rend its bonds in vain: