339

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 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 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, 351 His blood in temperate seeming now would

flow:

None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwined

Himself perforce around the hearer's mind; There he was stamp'd, in liking, or in hate, If greeted once; however brief the date That friendship, pity, or aversion knew, Still there within the inmost thought he grew.

You could not penetrate his soul, but found, Despite your wonder, to your own he wound;

His presence haunted still; and from the breast

He forced an all unwilling interest: 380 Vain was the struggle in that mental net, His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget!

Which thus begins so courteously and well. Let Otho cherish here his polish'd guest, To him my thanks and thoughts shall be express'd.'

And here their wondering host hath interposed:

'Whate'er there be between you undisclosed,

This is no time nor fitting place to mar The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. If thou, Sir Ezzelin, hast aught to show Which it befits Count Lara's ear to know, To-morrow, here or elsewhere, as may best Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest;

470

I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown, Though, like Count Lara, now return'd alone

From other lands, almost a stranger grown;
And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth
I augur right of courage and of worth,
He will not that untainted line belie,
Nor aught that knighthood may accord,
deny.'

The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest; The courteous host, and all-approving guest, Again to that accustom'd couch must creep Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep,

631 And man, o'erlaboured with his being's strife,

Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life. There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's guile,

Hate's working brain, and lull'd ambition's wile;

O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave, And quench'd existence crouches in a grave. What better name may slumber's bed become?

Night's sepulchre, the universal home, Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine,

640

Alike in naked helplessness recline; Glad for awhile to heave unconscious breath,

Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death,

And shun, though day but dawn on ills increased,

That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least.

30

The hour is past, and Lara too is there, With self-confiding, coldly patient air; Why comes not Ezzelin? The hour is past, And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow's o'ercast.

'I know my friend! his faith I cannot fear,

If yet he be on earth, expect him here; The roof that held him in the valley stands Between my own and noble Lara's lands; My halls from such a guest had honour gain'd,

Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdain'd, But that some previous proof forbade his stay,

39

And urged him to prepare against to-day. The word I pledged for his I pledge again, Or will myself redeem his knighthood's

stain.'

He ceased; and Lara answer'd, ‘I am here To lend at thy demand a listening ear