He came—they knew not whence—nor much they cared; Yet seemed he one in luxury lapped and reared: Some hideous wrong, perchance, they thought, had stung Into rebellion one so soft and young. A home laid desolate—a father slain— Or else redress for injury, asked in vain; But all was wild surmise—they questioned not, But in the present soon the past forgot. So mild his face, serene and calmly bright, Like a sweet landscape in the morning light, You might not guess what passions lurked apart In the dim caverns of his hidden heart; And in his eye gleamed such uncertain ray, Full rarely sad, and still more rarely gay, You ne’er could tell if joy or rage would speak In the next moment from his changing cheek. If wreathed in smiles, his beaming features shone Like a breeze-dimpled streamlet in the sun; But when the glance of anger fired his eye, It struck like lightning from a cloudless sky. Still in his glance, and in his lifted hand, Was that which showed the soul that would command; It might be art, or nature—none could tell— But if a mask, he wore it rarely well. V. The western clouds have lost their purple dye, A silver radiance tints the eastern sky— That dream-like glory tells the eye, that soon Above the hills shall sail the summer moon. And Gilbert passed within that silent hall, Lit by a dim lamp trembling from the wall, His steps he turned by that uncertain ray, Where stretched along his sleeping warriors lay. ’Twas a strange sight! each swart and stalwart form, So scarred and seared by warfare and by storm, There seemingly lay lapped in such sweet rest, As lulls the infant on its mother’s breast. But when the form in deepest trance lies still Most wildly wakes the fancy and the will, And much of tumult hushed, and passion stern, Who watched the unconscious sleepers might discern. Here one, whose quivering eyelids shunned the light, Seemed struggling with some phantom child of night; Yon grimly smiling form we well may guess In dreams anticipates revenge—redress! And there be fingers wandering to the brand, And the sheathed dagger meets the unconscious hand; And some there be whose quick convulsive clasp The long brown rifle strains with iron grasp. VI.