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?
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 known;
He left a Corsair's name to other times, Link'd with one virtue and a thousand crimes.
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 forgot, Might be untaught him by his varied lot; Nor good nor ill of late were known, his
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- known:
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 few.
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 alone;
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
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 sought
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 dream?
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.
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- plate:
Of skies more cloudless, Such scene reminded him of other days, moons of purer blaze, 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.
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
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,
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
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 restored?
Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord
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 spoke
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 yet?
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 cause?
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 unfold.
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' prate- They guess'd—they gazed—they fain would know his fate.
What had be been? what was he, thus unknown,
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 near,
Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer; That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd
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 chide
Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride, And steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem One doubt from others' half withheld esteem;
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 truth,
And troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth;
With thought of years in phantom-chase mispent,
And wasted powers for better purpose lent; And fiery passions that had pour'd 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 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 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 soar'd beyond, or sunk beneath The men with whom he felt condemn'd to breathe,
And long'd by good or ill to separate Himself from all who shared his mortal state;
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 flow:
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 walk'd,
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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