"I come through darkness—and I scarce know why—
"Yet not to hurt—I would not see thee die."
"If so, kind lady! thine the only eye
"That would not here in that gay hope delight:
"Theirs is the chance—and let them use their right.
"But still I thank their courtesy or thine,
"That would confess me at so fair a shrine!" 1050
Strange though it seem—yet with extremest grief
Is link'd a mirth—it doth not bring relief—
That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles,
And smiles in bitterness—but still it smiles;
And sometimes with the wisest and the best,
Till even the scaffold10 echoes with their jest!
Yet not the joy to which it seems akin—
It may deceive all hearts, save that within.
Whate'er it was that flash'd on Conrad, now
A laughing wildness half unbent his brow: 1060
And these his accents had a sound of mirth,
As if the last he could enjoy on earth;