‘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, | |
460 | Which thus begins so courteously and well. |
Let Otho cherish here his polish’d guest, | |
To him my thanks and thoughts shall be express’d.’ | |
And here their wondering host hath interposed— | |
‘Whate’er there be between you undisclosed, | |
465 | 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 | |
470 | 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 | |
475 | I augur right of courage and of worth, |
He will not that untainted line belie, | |
Nor aught that knighthood may accord, deny.’ | |
‘Tomorrow be it,’ Ezzelin replied, | |
‘And here our several worth and truth be tried; | |
480 | 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 | |
485 | 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. | |
XXIV | |
490 | ‘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, | |
495 | 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 | |
With which that chieftain’s brow would bear him down: | |
500 | 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? | |
505 | 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 | |
510 | 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, | |
515 | 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; | |
520 | 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, | |
525 | 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? | |
XXVI | |
Light was his form, and darkly delicate | |
That brow whereon his native sun had sate, | |
530 | 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 | |
535 | 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; | |
540 | 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, | |
545 | 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: | |
550 | 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. | |
XXVII | |
If aught he loved, ’twas Lara; but was shown | |
555 | 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; | |
560 | His zeal, though more than that of servile hands, |
In act alone obeys, his air. commands; | |
As if ’twas Lara’s less than | |
That thus he served, but surely not for hire. | |
Slight were the tasks enjoin’d him by his lord, | |
565 | 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, | |
570 | 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, not descend to them. | |
Of higher birth he seem’d, and better days, | |
575 Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays, | |
So femininely white it might bespeak | |
Another sex, when match’d with that smooth cheek, | |
But for his garb, and something in his gaze, | |
More wild and high than woman’s eye betrays; | |
580 | 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 | |
585 | 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 remember’d then; | |
590 | Unless ’twas Lara’s wonted voice that spake, |
For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. | |
XXVIII | |
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 | |
595 | Their wonder at the calmness of the bold, |
Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore | |
Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore, | |
The colour of young Kaled went and came, | |
The lip of ashes, and the cheek of flame; | |
600 | And o’er his brow the dampening heart-drops threw |
The sickening iciness of that cold dew, | |
That rises as the busy bosom sinks | |
With heavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks. | |
Yes – there be things which we must dream and dare, | |
605 | And execute ere thought be half aware: |
Whate’er might Kaled’s be, it was enow | |
To seal his lip but agonise his brow. | |
He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast |