CANTO THE FIRST XXVI |
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CANTO THE FIRSTXXVI
Light was his form, and darkly delicate
That brow whereon his native sun had sate,
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
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And from his chief withdrawn, he wander`d lone,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
No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth.
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