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His soul had wedded Wisdom, and her dower
Is love and justice, clothed in which he sate
Apart from men, as in a lonely tower,

Pitying the tumult of their dark estate.–
Yet even in youth did he not e’er abuse 35
The strength of wealth or thought, to consecrate

Those false opinions which the harsh rich use
To blind the world they famish for their pride;
Nor did he hold from any man his dues,

But, like a steward in honest dealings tried, 40
With those who toiled and wept, the poor and wise,
His riches and his cares he did divide.

Fearless he was, and scorning all disguise,
What he dared do or think, though men might start,
He spoke with mild yet unaverted eyes; 45

Liberal he was of soul, and frank of heart,
And to his many friends–all loved him well–
Whate’er he knew or felt he would impart,

If words he found those inmost thoughts to tell;
If not, he smiled or wept; and his weak foes 50
He neither spurned nor hated–though with fell

And mortal hate their thousand voices rose,
They passed like aimless arrows from his ear–
Nor did his heart or mind its portal close

To those, or them, or any, whom life’s sphere 55
May comprehend within its wide array.
What sadness made that vernal spirit sere?–

He knew not. Though his life, day after day,
Was failing like an unreplenished stream,
Though in his eyes a cloud and burthen lay, 60

Through which his soul, like Vesper’s serene beam
Piercing the chasms of ever rising clouds,
Shone, softly burning; though his lips did seem

Like reeds which quiver in impetuous floods;
And through his sleep, and o’er each waking hour, 65
Thoughts after thoughts, unresting multitudes,

Were driven within him by some secret power,
Which bade them blaze, and live, and roll afar,
Like lights and sounds, from haunted tower to tower

O’er castled mountains borne, when tempest’s war 70
Is levied by the night-contending winds,
And the pale dalesmen watch with eager ear;–

Though such were in his spirit, as the fiends
Which wake and feed an everliving woe,–
What was this grief, which ne’er in other minds 75

A mirror found,–he knew not–none could know;
But on whoe’er might question him he turned
The light of his frank eyes, as if to show

He knew not of the grief within that burned,
But asked forbearance with a mournful look; 80
Or spoke in words from which none ever learned

The cause of his disquietude; or shook
With spasms of silent passion; or turned pale:
So that his friends soon rarely undertook

To stir his secret pain without avail;– 85
For all who knew and loved him then perceived
That there was drawn an adamantine veil