And Lara left in youth his fatherland;
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;
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,

The reader is apprised that the name of Lara being Spanish, and no circumstance of local or national description fixing the scene or hero of the poem to any country or age, the word "Serf," which could not be correctly applied to the lower classes in Spain, who were never vassals of the soil, has nevertheless been employed to designate the followers of our fictitious chieftain. He is meant for noble of the Morea.

And sighs for sables which he must not wear.
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace
The Lara's 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,
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,
Years had roll'd on, and fast they speed away
Of foreign aspect, and of tender age.
To those that wander as to those that stay:
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 sear'd 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.

seen,

v.

And they indeed were changed-'tis quickly
Whate'er he be, 'twas not what he had been:
That brow in furrow'd lines had fix'd at last,
And spake of passions, but of passion past;
The pride, but not the fire, of early days,
Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise.
A high demeanour, and a glance that took
Their thoughts from others by a single look:
And that sarcastic levity of tongue,
The stinging of a heart the world hath stung,
That darts in seeming playfulness around,
And makes those feel that will not own the
wound:

All these seem'd his, and something more

beneath

Than glance could well reveal, or accent breathe.
Ambition, glory, love, the common aim,
That some can conquer, and that all would
claim,

Within his breast appear'd no more to strive,

Yet seem'd as lately they had been alive; And some deep feeling it were vain to trace At moments lighten'd o'er his livid face.

VI.

Not much he loved long question of the past,
Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast,
In those far lands where he had wander'd lone,
And-as himself would have it seem-unknown:
Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan,
Nor glean experience from his fellow-man;
But what he had beheld he shunn'd to show,
As hardly worth a stranger's care to know;
If still more prying such inquiry grew,
His brow fell darker, and his words more few.

VII.

Not unrejoiced to see him once again,
Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men;
Born of high lineage, link'd in high command,
He mingled with the Magnates of his land;
Join'd the carousals of the great and gay,
And saw them smile or sigh their hours away;
But still he only saw, and did not share
The common pleasure or the general care:
He did not follow what they all pursued,
With hope still baffled, still to be renew'd;
Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gain,
Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain:
Around him some mysterious circle thrown
Repell'd approach, and show'd him still alone;
Upon his eye sate something of reproof,
That kept at least frivolity aloof;

And things more timid that beheld him near,
In silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear;
And they the wiser, friendlier few confess'd
They deem'd him better the his air express'd.

VIII.

'Twas strange-in youth all action and all life,
Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife;
Woman-the field-the ocean-all that gave
Promise of gladness, peril of a grave,
In turn he tried-he ransack'd all below,
And found his recompense in joy or woe,
No tame, trite medium; for his feelings sought
In that intenseness an escape from thought:
The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed
On that the feebler elements had raised:
The rapture of his heart had look'd on high,
And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky:
Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme,
How woke he from the wildness of that dream?
Alas! he told not:-but he did awake

To curse the wither'd heart that would not break.

Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head
Which hands profane had gather'd from the
dead,

That still beside his open'd volume lay,
As if to startle all save him away?
Why slept he not when others were at rest?
Why heard no music, and received no guest?
All was not well, they deem'd; but where the
wrong?

Some knew perchance-but 'twere a tale too long;

And such besides were too discreetly wise,
To more than hint their knowledge in surmise;
But if they would-they could"- around the
board,

Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord.

X.

It was the night-and Lara's glassy stream
The stars are studding, each with imaged beam:
So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray,
And yet they glide like happiness away;
Reflecting far and fairy-like from high
The immortal lights that live along the sky:
Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree,
And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee:
Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove,
And Innocence would offer to her love.
These deck the shore; the waves their channel
make

In windings bright and mazy like the snake.
All was so still, so soft in earth and air,
You scarce would start to meet a spirit there;
Secure that nought of evil could delight
To walk in such a scene, on such a night!
So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood,
It was a moment only for the good:

But turn'd in silence to his castle-gate;
Such scene his soul no more could contemplate:
Such scene reminded him of other days,
Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze,
Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that

faults;

And half a column of the pompous page,
That speeds the specious tale from age to age,
Where history's pen its praise or blame supplies,
And lies like truth, and still most truly lies.
He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam
shone

Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone,
And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there
O'er Gothic windows knelt in picture prayer,
Reflected in fantastic figures grew,
Like life, but not like mortal life, to view;
His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom,
And the wide waving of his shaken plume,
Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave
His aspect all that terror gives the grave,

XII.

"Twas midnight-all was slumber; the lone light

XVI.

XIII.

Cold as the marble where his length was laid,
Pale as the beam that o'er his features play'd,
Was Lara stretch'd; his half-drawn sabre near,
Dropp'd it should seem in more than nature's
fear;

Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now,
And still defiance knit his gather'd brow;
Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay,
There lived upon his lip the wish to slay;
Some half-form'd threat in utterance there had
died,

Some imprecation of despairing pride:
His eye was almost seal'd, but not forsook
Even in its trance the gladiator's look,
That oft awake his aspect could disclose,
And now was fix'd in horrible repose.
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,
Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering limb
Recalls its function, but his words are strung
In terms that seem not of his native tongue;
Distinct but strange, enough they understand
To deem them accents of another land:
And such they were, and meant to meet an ear
That hears him not--alas, that cannot hear!

XIV.

His page approach'd, and he alone appear'd
To know the import of the words they heard;
And by the changes of his cheek and brow,
They were not such as Lara should avow,
Nor he interpret, yet with less surprise
Than those around their chieftain's state he eyes,
But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside,
And in that tongue which seem'd his own replied,
And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem
To soothe away the horrors of his dream;
If dream it were, that thus could overthrow
A breast that needed not ideal woe.

XV.

Whate'er his frenzy 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 lowers
Than these were wont; and if the coming night
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;

Vain thought! that hour of ne'er unravell'd gloom

Came not again, or Lara could assume
A seeming of forgetfulness, that made
His vassals more amazed, nor less afraid.
Had memory vanish'd then with sense restored?
Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord
Betray'd a feeling that recall'd to these
That fever'd moment of his mind's disease.
Was it a dream? was his the voice that spoke
Those strange wild accents? his the cry that

broke

Their slumber? his the oppress'd o'er-labour'd heart

That ceased to beat, the look that made them start?

Could he who thus had suffer'd, so forget,
When such as saw that suffering shudder yet?
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!
Not so in him; his breast had buried both,

Nor common gazers could discern the growth
Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half told;
They choke the feeble words that would unfold.
XVII.

In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd
Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd;
Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot,

In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot:
His silence form'd a theme for others' prate-
They guess'd-they gazed-they fain would
know his fate.

What had he been? what was he, thus unknown,
Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known?
A hater of his kind? yet some would say,
With them he could seem gay amidst the gay:
But own'd that smile, if oft observed and near,
Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer;
That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by,
Yet there was softness too in his regard,
None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye:
At times, a heart as not by nature hard,
But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide
Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride,
And steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem
One doubt from others' half withheld esteem;
In self-inflicted penance of a breast
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,
He stood a stranger in this breathing world,
An erring spirit from another hurled;
A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped
By choice the perils he by chance escaped;
But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet
His mind would half exult and half regret :
With more capacity for love than earth

Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth,
His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth,
And troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth;

With thought of years in phantom chase

misspent,

And wasted powers for better purpose lent:
And fiery passions that had pour'd their wrath
In hurried desolation o'er his path,
And left the better feelings all at strife
In wild reflection o'er his stormy life;

But haughty still, and loth himself to blame,
He call'd on Nature's self to share the shame,
And charged all faults upon the fleshly form
She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm;
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 longed 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,
His blood in temperate seeming now would
flow:

Ah! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glow'd,
But ever in that icy smoothness flow'd.
'Tis true, with other men their path he walk'd,
And like the rest in seeming did and talk'd;
Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start,
His madness was not of the head, but heart :
And rarely wandered in his speech, or drew
His thoughts so forth as to offend the view.

XIX.

With all that chilling mystery of mien, And seeming gladness to remain unseen; He had (if 'twere not nature's boon) an art Of fixing memory on another's heart:

It was not perchance love,-nor hate-nor

aught

That words can image to express the thought;
But they who saw him did not see in vain,
And once beheld, would ask of him again:
And those to whom he spake remember'd well,
And on the words, however light, would dwell:
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.
Vain was the struggle in that mental net,
His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget!

XX.

There is a festival, where knights and dames,
And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims,
Appear a high-born and a welcomed guest
To Otho's hall came Lara with the rest.
The long carousal shakes the illumined hall,
Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball;

And the gay dance of bounding Beauty's train
Links grace and harmony in happiest chain:
Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands
That mingle there in well according bands.
It is a sight the careful brow might smooth,
And make age smile, and dream itself to youth,
And Youth forget such hour was pass'd on earth,
So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth!

XXI.

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,
Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there.
He lean'd against the lofty pillar nigh,
With folded arms and long attentive eye,
Nor mark'd a glance so sternly fix'd on his :
Ill brook'd high Lara scrutiny like this.
At length he caught it, 'tis a face unknown,
Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien,
But seems as searching his, and his alone;
Who still till now had gazed on him unseen;
At length encountering meets the mutual gaze
Of keen inquiry, and of mute amaze :
On Lara's glance emotion gathering grew,
As if distrusting that the stranger threw ;
Along the stranger's aspect fix'd and stern
Flash'd more than thence the vulgar eye could
learn.

XXII.

"'Tis he!" the stranger cried, and those that heard,

Re-echo'd fast and far the whisper'd word.
""Tis he!"""Tis who?" they question far
and near,

Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear;
So widely spread, few bosoms well could broo
The general marvel, or that single look.
But Lara stirr'd not, changed not: the surpris
That sprung at first to his arrested eyes
Seem'd now subsided: neither sunk nor raised
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?"

XXIII.

It were too much for Lara to pass by
Such questions, so repeated fierce and high:
With look collected, but with accent cold,
More mildly firm than petulantly bold,
He turn'd, and met the inquisitorial tone-
"My name is Lara !-when thine own is known,
Doubt not my fitting answer to requite
The unlook'd-for courtesy of such a knight.
'Tis Lara-further wouldst thou mark or ask?
I shun no question, and I wear no mask."
"Thou shunn'st no question? Ponder-is there
Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would

none

shun?

And deem'st thou me unknown too? Gaze again!
At least thy memory was not given in vain.
Oh! never canst thou cancel half her debt,
Eternity forbids thee to forget."
With slow and searching glance upon his face
Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace
They knew, or chose to know: with dubious look
He deign'd no answer, but his head he shook,
And half contemptuous turn'd to pass away '

But the stern stranger motion'd him to stay.
"A word!-I charge thee stay, and answer here
To one who, wert thou noble, were thy peer;
But as thou wast and art-nay, frown not, lord,
If false, 'tis easy to disprove the word-
But as thou wast and art, on thee looks down,
Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown.
Art thou not he, whose deeds-
"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 ex-
press'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;
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."
"To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied,

"And here our several worth and truth be tried;
I gage my life, my falchion, to attest
My words; so may I mingle with the blest!"
What answers Lara? to its centre shrunk
His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk.
The words of many, and the eyes of all
That there were gather'd, seem'd on him to fall;
But his were silent, his appear'd to stray
In far forgetfulness away--away-
Alas! that heedlessness of all around
Bespoke remembrance only too profound.

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
With which that chieftain's brow would bear
him down.

It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride
That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide;
But that of one in his own heart secure
Of all that he would do, or could endure.
Could this mean peace? the calmness of the
good?

Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood?
Alas! too like in confidence are each

For man to trust to mortal look or speech:
From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern
Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart to
learn.

XXV.

And Lara called 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 fate 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 recall,
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?

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
And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught
That for a burning moment fever'd there.
From high, and lighten'd with electric thought,
Had temper'd with a melancholy tinge:
Though its black orb those long low lashes' fringe

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:
From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart;
He seem'd like him he served, to live apart
To know no brotherhood, and take from earth
No gift beyond that bitter boon-our birth.

XXVII.

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,
A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid:
His zeal, though more than that of servile hands,
In act alone obeys, his air commands;
As if 'twas Lara's less than his desire
That thus he served, but surely not for hire.
Slight were the tasks enjoin'd him by his lord,
To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword;
To tune his lute, or, if he will'd it more,
On tomes of other times and tongues to pore:
But ne'er to mingle with the menial train,
To whom he show'd nor deference nor disdain,
But that well-worn reserve which proved he

knew

No sympathy with that familiar crew; H