With all that chilling mystery of mien, | Of keen inquiry, and of mute amaze; That words can image to express the thought; And on the words, however light, would None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwined On Lara's glance emotion gathering grew, ""Tis he!" the stranger cried, and those Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear; brook The general marvel, or that single look; Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger gazed, And drawing nigh, exclaim'd, with haughty sneer: "Tis he! - how came he thence? — what doth he here?" It were too much for Lara to pass by Such question, so repeated fierce and high; With look collected, but with accent cold, There is a festival, where knights and More mildly firm than petulantly bold, He turn'd, and met the inquisitorial toneAnd aught that wealth or lofty lineage" My name is Lara!- when thine own is dames, So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth! And Lara gazed on these, sedately glad, His brow belied him if his soul was sad; And his glance follow'd fast each fluttering fair, known, They knew, or chose to know-with dubious He deign'd no answer, but his head he shook, 66 Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there: peer, lord, frown not, If false, 'tis easy to disprove the word But, as thou wast and art, on thee looks With which that chieftain's brow would bear him down : down, Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy | It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling frown. "Whate'er I be, Words wild as these, accusers like to thee I list no further; those with whom they weigh May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay The wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell, Which thus begins so courteously and well. Let Otho cherish here his polish'd guest, To him my thanks and thoughts shall be exprest." And here their wondering host hath interposed“Whate'er there be between you undisclosed, This is no time nor fitting place to mar I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown, "To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied, And here our several worth and truth be tried; I gage my life, my falchion to attest But his were silent, his appear'd to stray "To-morrow!-ay, to-morrow!" further word Than those repeated none from Lara heard; Upon his brow no outward passion spoke, From his large eye no flashing anger broke; Yet there was something fix'd in that low tone, Which show'd resolve, determined, though unknown. He seized his cloak-his head he slightly bow'd, And passing Ezzelin he left the crowd; And, as he pass'd him, smiling met the frown pride That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide : Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood? And Lara call'd his page, and went his way Well could that stripling word or sign obey: His only follower from those climes afar, Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star; For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung, In duty patient, and sedate though young; Silent as him he served, his faith appears Above his station, and beyond his years. Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land, In such from him he rarely heard command, But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come, When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of home: Those accents as his native mountains dear, Awake their absent echoes in his ear, Friends', kindreds', parents', wonted voice recal, Now lost, abjured, for one—his friend, his all: For him earth now disclosed no other guide; What marvel then he rarely left his side? Light was his form, and darkly delicate That brow whereon his native sun had sate, But had not marr'd, though in his beams 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 'twas a hectic tint of secret care That for a burning moment fever'd there; And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught From high, and lighten'd with electric thought, Though its black orb those long low lashes fringe, Had temper'd with a melancholy tinge; Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there, Or if 'twere 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 wander'd 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 seem'd, 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, 'twas Lara; but was shown His faith in reverence and in deeds alone; In mute attention; and his care, which guess'd Each wish, fulfill'd it ere the tongue express'd. Still there was haughtiness in all he did, In act alone obeys, his air commands; To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword; No sympathy with that familiar crew: smooth check, 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 guess'd. Kaled his name, though rumour said he bore Another ere he left his mountain-shore; For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, That name repeated loud without reply, He had look'd down upon the festive hall, And mark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all; And when the crowd around and near him told Their wonder at the calmness of the bold, The sickening iciness of that cold dew, shrinks. Yes-there be things that we must dream and dare, And execute ere thought be half aware: gone, And all within that hall seem'd left alone; Each had so fix'd his eye on Lara's mien, All had so mix'd their feelings with that There lie love's feverish hope and cunning's | Why comes he not? Such truths to be divulged, guile, wile; Hate's working brain, and lull'd ambition's Methinks the accuser's rest is long indulged. 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, Alike in naked helplessness recline; That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least. 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, And urged him to prepare against to-day ; He ceased-and Lara answer'd, "I am here wrung, But that I deem'd him scarcely less than mad, " Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad. 1 know him not--but me it seems he knew In lands where but I must not trifle too; Produce this babbler or redeem the pledge; Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge. Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew. "The last alternative befits me best, With cheek unchanging from its sallow And thus I answer for mine absent guest." gloom, However near his own or other's tomb; With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke, Its grasp well-used to deal the sabre-stroke; With eye, though calm, determined not to From that red floor he ne'er had risen again, For Lara's brow upon the moment grew Then all was stern collectedness and art, He almost turn'd the thirsty point on those Yet look'd he on him still with eye intent, As if he loathed the ineffectual strife That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life; As if to search how far the wound he gave Had sent its victim onward to his grave. But where was he? that meteor of a night, To win no confidence, and wake no love; The sweeping fierceness which his soul betray'd, The skill with which he wielded his keen blade; Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art? Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart? Who menaced but to disappear with light? For it was not the blind capricious rage Where was this Ezzelin? who came and went To leave no other trace of his intent. A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest, His host alarm'd, his murmuring squires distrest: Their search extends along, around the path, In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath: But none are there, and not a brake hath borne Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn; Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass, Which still retains a mark where murder was; Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale, The bitter print of each convulsive nail, When agonized hands that cease to guard, A word can kindle and a word assuage; But the deep working of a soul unmix'd With aught of pity where its wrath had fix'd; Such as long power and overgorged success These, link'd with that desire which ever Concentrates into all that's merciless : sways Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise, 'Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm, form, Such as himself might fear, and foes would And he must answer for the absent head Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead. Within that land was many a malcontent, Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent; That soil full many a wringing despot saw, Who work'd his wantonness in form of law; Long war without and frequent broil within Had made a path for blood and giant-sin, That waited but a signal to begin New havock, such as civil discord blends, |