LARA.

CANTO I.

I.

THE Serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain,

And Slavery half forgets her feudal chain;

He, their unhop'd, but unforgotten lord,
The long self-exiled chieftain is restored:
There be bright faces in the busy hall,

Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall;
Far chequering o'er the pictured window plays
The unwonted faggots' hospitable blaze;

And gay retainers gather round the hearth

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With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth.

II.

The chief of Lara is returned again :

And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main?

Left by his sire, too young such loss to know,
Lord of himself;-that heritage of woe,

That fearful empire which the human breast
But holds to rob the heart within of rest!-
With none to check, and few to point in time
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime;
Then, when he most required commandment, then
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern❜d men.
It skills not, boots not step by step to trace

His youth through all the mazes of its race;

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Short was the course his restlessness had run,

But long enough to leave him half undone.

III.

And Lara left in youth his father-land;

But from the hour he waved his parting hand
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all

Had nearly ceased his memory to recall.

His sire was dust, his vassals could declare,

'Twas all they knew, that Lara was not there; 30 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;

"Yet doth he live!" exclaims the impatient heir,

And sighs for sables which he must not wear.
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace
The Laras' last and longest dwelling place;
But one is absent from the mouldering file
That now were welcome in that Gothic pile.

IV.

He comes at last in sudden loneliness,

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And whence they know not, why they need not guess; They more might marvel, when the greeting's o'er,

Not that he came, but came not long before:

No train is his beyond a single page,

Of foreign aspect, and of tender age.

Years had roll'd on, and fast they speed away

To those that wander as to those that stay;

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But lack of tidings from another clime

Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time.
They see, they recognise, yet almost deem

The present dubious, or the past a dream.

He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's prime, Though seared 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 name
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame.

His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins

No more than pleasure from the stripling wins;
And such, if not yet harden'd in their course,
Might be redeem'd, nor ask a long remorse.

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