LIGHT was his form, and darkly delicate
That brow whereon his native sun had sate,
But had not marred, though in his beans he grew,
The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone through;
Yet not such blush as mounts when health would show
All the heart's hue in that delighted glow;
But 't was a hectic tint of secret care
That for a burning moment fevered there ;
And the wild sparkle of his eye seemed caught
From high, and lightened with electric thought,
Though its black orb those long low lashes' fringe
Had tempered with a melancholy tinge;
Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there,
Or if 't were grief, a grief that none should share :
And pleased not him the sports that please his age,
The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page;
For hours on Lara he would fix his glance,
As all-forgotten in that watchful trance;
And from his chief withdrawn, he wandered lone,
Brief were his answers, and his questions none;
His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book;
His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook;
He seemed, like him he served, to live apart
From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart;
To know no brotherhood, and take from earth
No gift beyond that bitter boon our birth.
If aught he loved, 't was Lara; but was shown
His faith in reverence and in deeds alone:
In mute attention; and his care, which guessed
Each wish, fulfilled it ere the tongue expressed.
Still there was haughtiness in all he did,
A spirit deep that brooked not to be chid:
His zeal, though more than that of servile hands,
In act alone obeys, his air commands;
As if 't was Lara's less than his desire
That thus he served, but surely not for hire.
Slight were the tasks enjoined him by his lord,
To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword;
To tune his lute, or if he willed it more,
On tomes of other times and tongues to pore;
But ne'er to mingle with the menial train,
To whom he showed nor deference nor disdain,
But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew
No sympathy with that familiar crew;
His soul, whate'er his station or his stem,
Could bow to Lara, nor descend to them.
Of higher birth he seemed, and better days,
Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays,
So femeninely white it might bespeak
Another sex, when matched with that smooth cheek,
But for his garb, and something in his gaze,
More wild and high than woman's eye betrays;
A latent fierceness that far more became
His fiery climate than his tender frame :
True, in his words it broke not from his breast,
But from his aspect might be more than guessed.
Kaled his name, though rumor said he bore
Another ere he left his mountain-shore ;
For sometimes he would hear, however nigh,
That name repeated loud without reply,
As unfamiliar, or, if roused again,
Start to the sound, as but remembered then;
Unless 't was Lara's wonted voice that spake,
For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake.
ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.
AND thou wert sad yet I was not with thee; And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near; Methought that joy and health alone could be Where I was not- and pain and sorrow here! And is it thus?- it is as I foretold,
And shall be more so; for the mind recoils Upon itself, and the wrecked heart lies cold, While heaviness collects the shattered spoils. It is not in the storm nor in the strife
We feel benumbed and wish to be no more,
But in the after-silence on the shore,
When all is lost, except a little life.
I am too well avenged! - but 't was my right; Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent To be the Nemesis who should requite
Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument.
Mercy is for the merciful! If thou
Hast been of such, 't will be accorded now.
Thy nights are banished from the realms of sleep!— Yes! they may flatter thee, but thou must feel
A hollow agony which will not heal,
For thou art pillowed on a curse too deep;
Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap
The bitter harvest in a woe as real!
I have had many foes, but none like thee;
For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend,
And be avenged, or turn them into friend;
But thou in safe implacability
Hadst nought to dread-in thine own weakness shielded,
And in my love, which hath but too much yielded,
And spared, for thy sake, some I should not spare And thus upon the world — trust in thy truth And the wild fame of my ungoverned youth
On things that were not, and on things that are —
Even upon such a basis hast thou built
A monument, whose cement hath been guilt!
The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord,
And hewed down, with an unsuspected sword,
Fame, peace, and hope and all the better life
Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart,
Might still have risen from out the grave of strife,
And found a nobler duty than to part.
But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice,
Trafficking with them in a purpose cold
For present anger, and for future gold -
And buying other's grief at any price.
And thus once entered into crooked ways,
The early truth, which was thy proper praise,
Did not still walk beside thee - but at times,
And with a breast unknowing its own crimes,
Deceit, averments incompatible,
Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell
In Janus-spirits-the significant eye
Which learns to lie with silence
the pretext
Of Prudence, with advantages annexed
The acquiescence in all things which tend,
No matter how, to the desired end
All found a place in thy philosophy.
The means were worthy, and the end is wonI would not do by thee as thou hast done!
IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND.
When from the heart where Sorrow sits,
Her dusky shadow mounts too high,
And o'er the changing aspect flits,
And clouds the brow or fills the eye,
Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink;
My thoughts their dungeon know to well;
Back to my breast the wanderers shrink,
And droop within their silent cell.
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