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That trying moment hath at once reveal'd
The secret long and yet but half-conceal'd;
In baring to revive that lifeless breast,
Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confest;
And life return'd, and Kaled felt no shame
What now to her was Womanhood or Fame?
And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep, 1165
But where he died his grave was dug as deep ;
Nor is his mortal slumber less profound, [mound;
Though priest nor bless’d, nor marble deck'd the
And he was mourn'd by one whose quiet grief,
Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief. 1170
Vain was all question ask'd her of the past,
And vain e'en menace-silent to the last;
She told nor whence, nor why she left behind
Her all for one who seem'd but little kind.
Why did she love him ? Curious fool !-be still — 1175
Is human love the growth of human will?
To her he might be gentleness; the stern
Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern,
And when they love, your smilers guess not how
Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow. 1180
They were not common links, that form'd the chain
That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain;
But that wild tale she brook'd not to unfold,
And seald is now each lip that could have told.
They laid him in the earth, and on his breast, 1185
Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest,
They found the scatter'd dints of many a scar,
Which were not planted there in recent war;
Where'er had pass'd his summer years of life,
It seems they vanish'd in a land of strife; 1190
But all unknown his glory or his guilt,
These only told that somewhere blood was spilt,
And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past,
Return'd no more—that night appear'd his last.
Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale)
1195 A Serf that cross'd the intervening vale, When Cynthia's light almost gave way to morn, And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn; A Serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood, And hew the bough that bought his children's food, Pass'd by the river that divides the plain
1201 Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain : He heard a tramp-a horse and horseman broke From out the wood-before him was a cloak Wrapt round some burthen at his saddle-bow, 1205 Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow. Roused by the sudden sight at such a time, And some foreboding that it might be crime,
Himself unheeded watched the stranger's course,
Who reach'd the river, bounded from his horse, 1210
And lifting thence the burthen which he bore,
Heav'd up the bank, and dash'd it from the shore,
Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and seem'd to
And still another hurried glance would snatch,
And follow with his step the stream that flow'd, 1215
As if even yet too much its surface show'd:
At once he started, stoop'd around him strown
The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone;
Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there,
And slung them with a more than common care. 1220
Meantime the Serf had crept to where unseen
Himself might safely mark what this might mean ;
He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast,
And something glitter'd starlike on the vest,
But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk, 1225
A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk:
It rose again but indistinct to view,
And left the waters of a purple hue,
Then deeply disappear'd: the horseman gazed
Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised;
1230 Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed, And instant spurr'd him into panting speed. His face was mask'd—the features of the dead, If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread; But if in sooth a star its bosom bore,
1235 Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore,
And such 'tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn
Upon the night that led to such a mom.
If thus he perish'd Heaven receive his soul !
His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roll;
And charity upon the hope would dwell
It was not Lara's hand by which he fell.
XXV. And Kaled-Lara-Ezzelin, are gone, Alike without their monumental stone! The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean 1245 From lingering where her chieftain's blood had been; Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud, Her tears were few, her wailing never loud; But furious would you tear her from the spot Where yet she scarce believed that he was not, 1250 Her eye
shot forth with all the living fire That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire: But left to waste her weary moments there, She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air, Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints, 1255 And woos to listen to her fond complaints : And she would sit beneath the very tree Where lay his drooping head upon her knee; And in that posture where she saw him fall, His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall; 1260 And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair, And oft would snatch it from her bosom there,
And fold, and press it gently to the ground,
As if she stanch'd anew some phantom's wound.
Herself would question, and for him reply ; 1265
Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly
From some imagined spectre in pursuit ;
Then seat her down upon some linden's root,
And hide her visage with her meagre hand,
Or trace strange characters along the sand 1270
This could not last-she lies by him she loved;
Her tale untold-her truth too dearly proved.