The chief of Lara is return’d again,
And why had Lara cross’d the bounding main?—
Left by his sire too young such loss to know,
Lord of himself; that heritage of woe.
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 amid 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 is not by nature hard.
But once perceived, his spirit seem’d to hide
Such weakness as unworthy of its pride,
And stretch’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.
There was in him a vital scorn of all,
As if the worst had fall’n which could befall.
He stood a stranger in this breathing world,
An erring spirit from another hurl’d;
A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped
By choice the perils he by chance escaped.