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 exprest."

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 ought 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.

“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

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

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:
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,
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;

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,
As unfamiliar, or, if roused again,
Start to the sound, as but remember'd then;
Unless 'twas Lara's wonted voice that spake,
For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all
awake.

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,.
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;
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 that we must dream and dare,

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
That sidelong smile upon the knight he past;
When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell,
As if on something recognized right well,
His memory read in such a meaning more
Than Lara's aspect unto others wore:
Forward he sprung- -a moment, both were

guile, wile;

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; Glad for awhile to heave unconscious breath, Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death, And shun, though day but dawn on ills increast, 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 1 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 ; The word I pledged for his I pledge again, Or will myself redeem his knighthood's

stain."

Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad.
I 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 spare,

Did Lara too his willing weapon bare. In vain the circling chieftains round them closed,

For Otho's phrenzy would not be opposed; And from his lip those words of insult fellHis sword is good who can maintain them well.

Short was the conflict; furious, blindly rash,

Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash: He bled, and fell, but not with deadly wound,

Stretch'd by a dextrous sleight along the ground. "Demand thy life!" He answer'd not: and then

again,

For Lara's brow upon the moment grew
Almost to blackness in its demon-hue;
And fiercer shook his angry falchion now
Than when his foe's was levell'd at his
brow;

Then all was stern collectedness and art,
Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart;
So little sparing to the foe he fell'd,
That when the approaching crowd his arm
withheld,

He almost turn'd the thirsty point on those
Who thus for mercy dared to interpose;
But to a moment's thought that purpose
bent:

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.

Which knows no neuter, owns but foes
or friends;
Fix'd in his feudal fortress each was lord,
In word and deed obey'd, in soul abhorr'd.
Thus Lara had inherited his lands,
And with them pining hearts and sluggish
hands;

But that long absence from his native clime
Had left him stainless of oppression's crime,
And now diverted by his milder sway,
All dread by slow degrees had worn away:
The menials felt their usual awe alone,
But more for him than them that fear was
grown;

They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first

All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim That slavery nothing which was still a name. The moment came, the hour when Otho thought

Secure at last the vengeance which he sought:

His summons found the destined criminal Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall, Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven, Defying earth, and confident of heaven. That morning he had freed the soil-bound slaves

Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves! Such is their cry--some watchword for the fight

mood,

right:

Religion-freedom-vengeance-what you

will,

gate; For thence the wretched ne'er unsoothed withdrew, For them, at least, his soul compassion knew.

Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high, The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye; Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof

They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof.
And they who watch'd might mark that
day by day
Some new retainers gather'd to his sway;
But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost,
He play'd the courteous lord and bounteous

and spread, That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be fed!

Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain'd

Such sway, their infant-monarch hardly reign'd; Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth, The Serfs contemned the one, and hated both:

host: dread

Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head; Whate'er his view, his favour more obtains With these, the people, than his fellowthanes.

If this were policy, so far 'twas sound, The million judged but of him as they found;

From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven They but required a shelter, and 'twas given. By him no peasant mourn'd his rifled cot, And scarce the Serf could murmur o'er his

lot;

foes,

Had Lara from that night, to him accurst,
Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst:
Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun
Inquiry into deeds at distance done;
By mingling with his own the cause of all,
E'en if he fail'd, he still delay'd his fall.
The sullen calm that long his bosom kept,
The storm that once had spent itself and
slept,

Roused by events that seem'd foredoom'd to urge

secure,

With him contempt forbore to mock the poor;

Youth present cheer and promised recompense

Detain'd, till all too late to part from thence:

To hate he offer'd, with the coming change,
The deep reversion of delay'd revenge;
To love, long baffled by the unequal match,
The well-won charms success was sure to
snatch.

been,

And is again; he only changed the scene. Light care had he for life, and less for fame,

But not less fitted for the desperate game: He deem'd himself mark'd out for others' hate,

And mock'd at ruin so they shared his fate.
What cared he for the freedom of the crowd?
He raised the humble but to bend the proud.
He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair,
But man and destiny beset him there: