His page approached, and he alone appeared
To know the import of the words they heard;
And, by the changes of his check and brow,
They were not such as Lara should avow,
Nor he interpret, yeth with less surprise
Than those around their chieftain's state he
But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside,
And in that tongue which scemed his own replied, And, Lara leeds those tones that gently seem
To soothe away the horrors of his dream;
that thus could overthrow
A breast that needed not ideal woe,
Whate'er his phrenzy dreamed or eye beheld,
If yet remembered ne'er to be revealed,
Rests at his heart: the customed morning came,
And breathed new vigour in his shaken frame! 250
And solace sought he none from priest nor leech,
And soon the same in movement and in speech
As heretofore he filled the passing hours,
Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lours
Than these were wont; and if the coming night
Appeared less welcome now to Lara's sight,
He to his marvelling vassals showed it not,
Whose shuddering proved their fear was less forgot.
In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl
The astonished slaves, and shun the fated hall; 260
The waving banner, and the clapping door,
The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor;
The long dim shadows of surrounding trees,
The flapping bat, the night song of the breeze;
Aught they behold or hear their thought appals,
As evening saddens o'er the dark grey walls.
Vain thought! that hour of ne'er unravelled gloom
Came not again, or Lara could assume
A seeming of forgetfulness, that made
His vassals more amazed nor less afraid
Had memory vanished then with sense restred?
Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord
Betrayed a feeling that recalled to these
That fevered moment of his mind's disease.
Was it a dream? was his the voice that spoke
Those strange wild accents; his the cry that broke
Their slumber? his the oppressed o'er-laboured
heart
That ceased to beat, the look that made them start?
Gould he who thns had suffered, so forget,
When such as saw that suffering shudder yet? 280
Or did that silence prove his memory fixed
Too deep for words, indelible, unmixed
In that corroding secrecy which gnaws
The heart to show the effect, but not the cause?
Not so in him; his breast had buried bothı,
Nor common gazers could discern the growth
Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half told;
They choak the feeble words that would unfold.
In him inexplicably mixed appeared
Much to be loved and hated, sought and feared; 290
Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot,
In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot;
His silence formed a theme for others' prate
They guessed they gazed — they fain would know his fate.
What had he been? what was he, thus unknown, Who walked their world, his lineage only known? A hater of his kind? yet some would say,
With them he could seem gay amidst the gay; But owned, that smile if oft observed and near, Waned in its mirth and withered to a sncer; 300 That smile might reach his lip, but passed not by, None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye:
Yet there was softness too in his regard,
At times, a heart as not by nature hard,
But once perceived, his spirit seemed to chide
Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride,
And stceled itself, as scorning to redeem
One doubt from others half withheld esteem;
In self-inflicted penance of a breast
Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest;
In vigilance of grief that would compel
The soul to hate for having loved too well.
There was in him a vital scorn of all:
As if the worst had fall'n which could befall,
He stood a stranger in this breathing world,
An erring spirit from another hurled;
A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped
By choice the perils he by chance escaped;
But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet.
Ilis mind would half exult and half regret: 320
With more capacity for love than earth
Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth,
His early dreams of good outstripped the truth,
And troubled manhood followed baffled youth;
With thought of years in phantom chase mispent,
And wasted powers for better purpose lent; And fiery passions that had poured their wrath In hurried desolation o'er his path,
And left the better feelings all at strife
In wild reflection o'er his stormy life;
But haughty still, and loth himself to blame,
He called on Nature's self to share the shame,
And charged all faults upon the fleshly form
She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm;
"Till he at last confounded good and ill,
And half mistook for fate the acts of will:
Too high for common selfishness, he could
At times resign his own for others' good,
But not in pity, not because he ought,
But in some strange perversity of thought, 340
That swayed him onward with a secret pride
To do what few or none would do beside;
And this same impulse would, in tempting time,
Mislead his spirit equally to crime;
So much he soared beyond, or sunk beneath
The men with whom he felt condemned to breathe,
And longed by good or ill to separate
Himself from all who shared his mortal state; His mind abhorring this had fixed her throne Far from tho world, in regions of her own: 350 Thus coldly passing all that passed below,
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