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CANTO THE FIRSTXXVII
If aught he loved, `twas Lara; but was shown
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 shew`d not 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.
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