That oft awake his aspect could disclose, They raise him-bear him;-hush! he breathes, he speaks, The swarthy blush recolours in his cheeks, His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim, And such they were, and meant to meet an ear XIV. His page approach'd, and he alone appear'd 225 Than those around their chieftain's state he eyes, 230 And in that tongue which seem'd his own replied, 235 241 If dream it were, that thus could overthrow XV. 245 250 Whate'er his phrensy dream'd or eye beheld, If yet remember'd ne'er to be reveal'd, Rests at his heart: the custom'd morning came, 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 255 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 behold or hear their thought appals, 265 As evening saddens o'er the dark gray walls. 260 XVI. Vain thought! that hour of ne'er unravell❜d gloom 270 275 Had memory vanish'd then with sense restored? 280 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? 285 Nor common gazers could discern the growth Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half told; XVII. In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd; 290 Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot, In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot; fate. What had he been? what was he, thus unknown, 295 In self-inflicted penance of a breast 305 Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest; In vigilance of grief that would compel The soul to hate for having loved too well. XVIII. There was in him a vital scorn of all: As if the worst had fall'n which could befall, 311 He stood a stranger in this breathing world, A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped By choice the perils he by chance escaped; Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth, 315 320 With thought of years in phantom chase mispent, 325 And fiery passions that had pour'd their wrath And left the better feelings all at strife In wild reflection o'er his stormy life; 330 335 And half mistook for fate the acts of will: VOL. IV. 340 |