In silence eyed him with a secret dread. IX. The Leech was sent--but not in mercy--there, To note how much the life yet left could bear; He found enough to load with heaviest chain, And promise feeling for the wrench of Pain; To-morrow--yea--to-morrow's evening Sun 920 Will, sinking, see Impalement's pangs begun, And rising with the wonted blush of morn Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne. Of torments this the longest and the worst, Which adds all other agony to thirst, That day by day Death still forbears to slake, While famished vultures flit around the stake. "Oh! water--water!"--smiling Hate denies The victim's prayer, for if he drinks he dies. This was his doom;--the Leech, the guard, were gone, 930 And left proud Conrad fettered and alone. X. 'Twere vain to paint to what his feelings grew-- It even were doubtful if their victim knew. There is a war, a chaos of the mind,[220] When all its elements convulsed, combined Lie dark and jarring with perturbéd force, And gnashing with impenitent Remorse-- That juggling fiend, who never spake before, But cries "I warned thee!" when the deed is o'er. Vain voice! the spirit burning but unbent, 940 May writhe--rebel--the weak alone repent! Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, And, to itself, all--all that self reveals,-- No single passion, and no ruling thought That leaves the rest, as once, unseen, unsought, But the wild prospect when the Soul reviews, _All_ rushing through their thousand avenues-- Ambition's dreams expiring, Love's regret, Endangered Glory, Life itself beset; The joy untasted, the contempt or hate 950 'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate; The hopeless past, the hasting future driven Too quickly on to guess if Hell or Heaven; Deeds--thoughts--and words, perhaps remembered not So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot; Things light or lovely in their acted time, But now to stern Reflection each a crime; The withering sense of Evil unrevealed, Not cankering less because the more concealed; All, in a word, from which all eyes must start, 960 That opening sepulchre, the naked heart[221] Bares with its buried woes--till Pride awake, To snatch the mirror from the soul, and break. Aye, Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all-- All--all--before--beyond--the deadliest fall. Each hath some fear, and he who least betrays, The only hypocrite deserving praise: Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and flies; But he who looks on Death--and silent dies: So, steeled by pondering o'er his far career, 970 He half-way meets Him should He menace near!