CANTO THE FIRST XVII |
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CANTO THE FIRSTXVII
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,
None e`er could trace its laughter to his eye:
Yet there was softness too in his regard,
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.
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