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These- and the pale pure cheek, became On Grief's vain eye- the blindest of the the bier

But she is nothing-wherefore is he here?

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They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain: Their hope revives-they follow o'er the main.

"Tis idle all moons roll on moons away, And Conrad comes not came not-since that day:

Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare
Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair!
Long mourn'd his band whom none could
mourn beside;
And fair the monument they gave his bride':
For him they raise not the recording stone
His death yet dubious, deeds too widely

He left a Corsair's name to other times, Link'd with one virtue and a thousand crimes.


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He comes at last in sudden loneliness,
And whence they know not, why they need
not guess;
They more might marvel, when the greet-
Not that he came, but came not long before:
ing's o'er,
No train is his beyond a single page,
Of foreign aspect, and of tender age.
To those that wander as to those that stay;
Years had roll'd on, and fast they speed away
But lack of tidings from another clime
Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time.
They see, they recognise, yet almost deem
He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's prime,
The present dubious, or the past a dream.
Though sear'd by toil,and something touch'd
by time;

His faults, whate'er they were, if scarce
Might be untaught him by his varied lot;
Nor good nor ill of late were known, his

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And spake of passions, but of passion past;
The pride, but not the fire, of early days,
Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise:
A high demeanour, and a glance that took
Their thoughts from others by a single look;
And that sarcastic levity of tongue,
The stinging of a heart the world hath stung.
That darts in seeming playfulness around,
And makes those feel that will not own
the wound;

Each trace wax'd fainter of his course,till all
Had nearly ceased his memory to recal.
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare,
'Twas all they knew,that Lara was not there;
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew
Cold in the many, anxious in the few.
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name,
His portrait darkens in its fading frame,
Another chief consoled his destined bride,
The young forgot him, and the old had died; | Than glance could well reveal, or accent
"Yet doth he live!" exclaims the impatient


And sighs for sables which he must not wear.
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy


All these seem'd his, and something more beneath,


Ambition, glory, love, the common aim, That some can conquer, and that all would claim,

Within his breast appear'd no more to strive, The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place; Yet seem'd as lately they had been alive; But one is absent from the mouldering file, And some deep feeling it were vain to trace That now were welcome in that Gothic pilc. | At moments lighten'd o'er his' livid face.


Not much he loved long question of the And then, his rarely call'd attendants said, Through night's long hours would sound his hurried tread O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown'd

Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast, In those far lands where he had wander'd lone,

And as himself would have it seem-un-

Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan,
Nor glean experience from his fellow-man;
But what he had beheld he shunn'd to show,
As hardly worth a stranger's care to know;
If still more prying such inquiry grew,
His brow fell darker, and his words more

Not unrejoiced to see him once again, Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men; Born of high lineage, link'd in high command,

In rude but antique portraiture around: They heard, but whisper'd “that must not be known— The sound of words less earthly than his own. Yes, they who chose might smile, but some had seen

They scarce knew what, but more than should have been.

Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head
Which hands profane had gather'd from
the dead,

That still beside his open'd volume lay,.
As if to startle all save him away?
Why slept he not when others were at rest?
Why heard no music and received no guest?
All was not well they deem'd - but where
the wrong?

Some knew perchance-but 'twere a tale
too long;

He mingled with the Magnates of his land;
Join'd the carousals of the great and gay,
And saw them smile or sigh their hours away;
But still he only saw, and did not share
The common pleasure or the general care;
He did not follow what they all pursued And such besides were too discreetly wise,
With hope still baffled, still to be renew'd; To more than hint their knowledge in
Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gain,
Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain: But if they would
Around him some mysterious circle thrown
Repell'd approach, and show'd him still Thus Lara's vassals

Upon his eye sate something of reproof,
That kept at least frivolity aloof;
And things more timid that beheld him near,
In silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear;
And they the wiser, friendlier few confest
They deem'd him better than his air exprest.

Twas strange-in youth all action and all life, Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife; Woman the field - the oceangave


all that

Promise of gladness, peril of a grave,
In turn he tried-he ransack'd all below,
And found his recompense in joy or woe,
No tame, trite medium; for his feelings

In that intenseness an escape from thought:
The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed
On that the feebler elements hath raised;
The rapture of his heart had look'd on high,
And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky:
Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme,
How woke he from the wildness of that

Alas! he told not-but he did awake
To curse the wither'd heart that would
not break.

Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, With eye more curious he appear'd to scan, And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day From all, communion he would start away:

surmise; they could "- around the board, prattled of their lord.

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Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove,
And Innocence would offer to her love.
These deck the shore; the waves their
channel make

In windings bright and mazy like the snake.
All was so still, so soft in earth and air,
You scarce would start to meet a spirit there;
Secure that nought of evil could delight
To walk in such a scene, on such a night!
It was a moment only for the good :
So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood,
But turn'd in silence to his castle-gate;
Such scene his soul no more could contem-

Of skies more cloudless,
Such scene reminded him of other days,
moons of
Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts
that now -
No-no-the storm may beat upon his brow,
Unfelt – unsparing – but a night like this,
A night of beauty, mock'd such breast as his.

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He turn'd within his solitary hall, And his high shadow shot along the wall; There were the painted forms of other times, 'Twas all they left of virtues or of crimes, Save vague tradition; and the gloomy vaults That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults;

And half a column of the pompous page, That speeds the specious tale from age to age: Where history's pen its praise or blame supplies,

And lies like truth, and still most truly lies. He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone

Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone,

And the high fretted roof, and saints, that


O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured

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Dropp'd it should seem in more than nature's fear;

Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now,
And still defiance knit his gather'd brow;
Though mix'd with terror,senseless as he lay,
There lived upon his lip the wish to slay;
Some half-form'd threat in utterance there
had died,

Some imprecation of despairing pride;
His eye was almost seal'd, but not forsook
Even in its trance the gladiator's look,
That oft awake his aspect could disclose,
And now was fix'd in horrible repose.
They raise him-bear him; hush! he
breathes, he speaks,

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And breathed new vigour in his shaken frame;

And solace sought he none from priest nor leech,

And soon the same in movement and in speech

As heretofore he fill'd the passing hours, Nor less he smiles nor more his forehead lours Than these were wont; and if the coming night

Appear'd less welcome now to Lara's sight, He to his marvelling vassals show'd it not, Whose shuddering proved their fear was less forgot.

In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl

The astonish'd slaves, and shun the fated hall;

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 hehold or hear their thoughts appals, As evening saddens o'er the dark gray


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Vain thought! that hour of ne'er unra- | Which tenderness might once have wrung
vell'd gloom
from rest;

Came not again, or Lara could assume
A seeming of forgetfulness, that made
His vassals more amazed nor less afraid-
Had memory vanish'd then with sense

Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their

Betray'd a feeling that recall'd to these
That fever'd moment of his mind's disease.
Was it a dream? was his the voice that

Those strange wild accents? his the cry
that broke

Their slumber? his the oppress'd o'erlabour'd heart

That ceased to beat, the look that made them start?

Could he who thus had suffer'd, so forget,
When such as saw that suffering shudder

Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd
Too deep for words, indelible, unmix'd
In that corroding secrecy which gnaws
The heart to show the effect, but not the

Not so in him; his breast had buried both,
Nor common gazers could discern the growth
Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave
half told;

They choke the feeble words that would

In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd;

Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot,
In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot;
His silence form'd a theme for others'
They guess'd—they gazed—they fain would
know his fate.

What had be been? what was he, thus

Who walk'd 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 own'd, that smile, if oft observed and

Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer;
That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd

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 seem'd to

Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride,
And steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem
One doubt from others' half withheld

In self-inflicted penance of a breast

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 hurÏ'd;
A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped
By choice the perils he by chance escaped;
But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet
His mind would half exult and half regret:
With more capacity for love than earth
Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth,
His early dreams of good outstripp'd the

And troubled manhood follow'd baffled

With thought of years in phantom-chase mispent,

And wasted powers for better purpose lent;
And fiery passions that had pour'd their

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 call'd 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


"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,
That sway'd him onwards with a secret

To do what few or none would do beside;
And this same impulse would, in tempting

Mislead his spirit equally to crime;
So much he soar'd beyond, or sunk beneath
The men with whom he felt condemn'd to

And long'd by good or ill to separate
Himself from all who shared his mortal

His mind abhorring this had fix'd her throne
Far from the world, in regions of her own :
Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below,
His blood in temperate seeming now would

Ah! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glow'd,
But ever in that icy smoothness flow'd!
'Tis true, with other men their path he

And like the rest in seeming did and talk'd,
Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start,
His madness was not of the head, but heart;
And rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew
His thoughts so forth as to offend the view.

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