He gazed, as if not yet had passed away[kz] The haughty spirit of that humbled clay; And those around have roused him from his trance, But cannot tear from thence his fixéd glance; And when, in raising him from where he bore Within his arms the form that felt no more, 1150 He saw the head his breast would still sustain, Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain; He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear The glossy tendrils of his raven hair, But strove to stand and gaze, but reeled and fell, Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well. Than that _he_ loved! Oh! never yet beneath The breast of _man_ such trusty love may breathe! That trying moment hath at once revealed The secret long and yet but half concealed; 1160 In baring to revive that lifeless breast, Its grief seemed ended, but the sex confessed; And life returned, and Kaled felt no shame-- What now to her was Womanhood or Fame? XXII. And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep, But where he died his grave was dug as deep; Nor is his mortal slumber less profound, Though priest nor blessed nor marble decked the mound, And he was mourned by one whose quiet grief, Less loud, outlasts a people's for their Chief. 1170 Vain was all question asked her of the past, And vain e'en menace--silent to the last; She told nor whence, nor why she left behind Her all for one who seemed but little kind. Why did she love him? Curious fool!--be still-- Is human love the growth of human will? To her he might be gentleness; the stern Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern, And when they love, your smilers guess not how Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow. 1180 They were not common links, that formed the chain That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain; But that wild tale she brooked not to unfold, And sealed is now each lip that could have told. XXIII. They laid him in the earth, and on his breast, Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest, They found the scattered dints of many a scar, Which were not planted there in recent war; Where'er had passed his summer years of life, It seems they vanished in a land of strife; 1190 But all unknown his Glory or his Guilt,[la] These only told that somewhere blood was spilt, And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past, Returned no more--that night appeared his last. XXIV.