The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown
Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone
Of deeper passions; and to judge their mien,
He, who would see, must be himself unseen.
Then—with the hurried tread, the upward eye,
The clenched hand, the pause of agony,
That listens, starting, lest the step too near
Approach intrusive on that mood of fear: 240
Then—with each feature working from the heart,
With feelings loosed to strengthen—not depart—
That rise—convulse—contend—that freeze, or glow,
Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow,
Then—Stranger! if thou canst, and tremblest not,
Behold his soul—the rest that soothes his lot!
Mark—how that lone and blighted bosom sears
The scathing thought of execrated years!
Behold—but who hath seen, or e'er shall see,
Man as himself—the secret spirit free? 250
Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent
To lead the guilty—guilt's worst instrument—