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 Between his heart and mind,—both unrelieved Wrought in his brain and bosom separate strife. Some said that he was mad, others believed _90 That memories of an antenatal life Made this, where now he dwelt, a penal hell; And others said that such mysterious grief From God’s displeasure, like a darkness, fell On souls like his, which owned no higher law _95 Than love; love calm, steadfast, invincible By mortal fear or supernatural awe; And others,—‘’Tis the shadow of a dream Which the veiled eye of Memory never saw, ‘But through the soul’s abyss, like some dark stream _100 Through shattered mines and caverns underground, Rolls, shaking its foundations; and no beam ‘Of joy may rise, but it is quenched and drowned In the dim whirlpools of this dream obscure; Soon its exhausted waters will have found _105 ‘A lair of rest beneath thy spirit pure, O Athanase!—in one so good and great, Evil or tumult cannot long endure. So spake they: idly of another’s state Babbling vain words and fond philosophy; _110 This was their consolation; such debate Men held with one another; nor did he, Like one who labours with a human woe, Decline this talk: as if its theme might be Another, not himself, he to and fro _115 Questioned and canvassed it with subtlest wit; And none but those who loved him best could know That which he knew not, how it galled and bit His weary mind, this converse vain and cold; For like an eyeless nightmare grief did sit _120 Upon his being; a snake which fold by fold Pressed out the life of life, a clinging fiend Which clenched him if he stirred with deadlier hold;— And so his grief remained—let it remain—untold. [1] PART 2. FRAGMENT 1.