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There stood a youth, slight as not yet With manhood's strength and firmness set; But on his cold, pale cheek were caught The traces of some deeper thought, A something seen of pride and gloom, Not like youth's hour of light and bloom: A brow of pride, a lip of scorn,— Yet beautiful in scorn and pride— A conscious pride, as if he own'd   Gems hidden from the world beside; And scorn, as he cared not to learn Should others prize those gems or spurn. He was the last of a proud race Who left him but his sword and name, And boyhood past in restless dreams Of future deeds and future fame.