352
LARA.
[canto ii.
VI.
But where was he? that meteor of a night,
Who menaced but to disappear with Hght.
Where was this Ezzelin? who came and went,
To leave no other trace of his intent.
He left the dome of Otho long ere mom,
In darkness, yet so well the path was worn
He could not miss it: near his dwelling lay;
But there he was not, and with coming day
Came fast inquiry, which unfolded nought, 750
Except the absence of the Chief it sought.
A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest,
His host alarmed, his murmuring squires distressed:
Their search extends along, around the path,
In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath:
But none are there, and not a brake hath borne
Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn;
Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass,
Which still retains a mark where Murder was;
Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale, 760
The bitter print of each convulsive nail.
When agonised hands that cease to guard,
Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward.
Some such had been, if here a life was reft.
But these were not; and doubting Hope is left;
And strange Suspicion, whispering Lara's name,
Now daily mutters o'er his blackened fame;
Then sudden silent when his form appeared,
Awaits the absence of the thing it feared
Again its wonted wondering to renew, 770
And dye conjecture with a darker hue.
But where was he? that meteor of a night,
Who menaced but to disappear with Hght.
Where was this Ezzelin? who came and went,
To leave no other trace of his intent.
He left the dome of Otho long ere mom,
In darkness, yet so well the path was worn
He could not miss it: near his dwelling lay;
But there he was not, and with coming day
Came fast inquiry, which unfolded nought, 750
Except the absence of the Chief it sought.
A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest,
His host alarmed, his murmuring squires distressed:
Their search extends along, around the path,
In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath:
But none are there, and not a brake hath borne
Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn;
Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass,
Which still retains a mark where Murder was;
Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale, 760
The bitter print of each convulsive nail.
When agonised hands that cease to guard,
Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward.
Some such had been, if here a life was reft.
But these were not; and doubting Hope is left;
And strange Suspicion, whispering Lara's name,
Now daily mutters o'er his blackened fame;
Then sudden silent when his form appeared,
Awaits the absence of the thing it feared
Again its wonted wondering to renew, 770
And dye conjecture with a darker hue.
