XXXIV


       All stood aloof, and at his partial moan
       Smil’d through their tears; well knew that gentle band
       Who in another’s fate now wept his own,
       As in the accents of an unknown land
       He sung new sorrow; sad Urania scann’d
       The Stranger’s mien, and murmur’d: “Who art thou?”
       He answer’d not, but with a sudden hand
       Made bare his branded and ensanguin’d brow,
Which was like Cain’s or Christ’s—oh! that it should be so!

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