On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest,
And stupor almost lull'd it into rest;
So feeble now—his mother's softness crept
To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept:
It was the very weakness of his brain,
Which thus confess'd without relieving pain.
None saw his trickling tears—perchance, if seen,
That useless flood of grief had never been: 1820
Nor long they flowed—he dried them to depart,
In helpless—hopeless—brokenness of heart:
The sun goes forth—but Conrad's day is dim—
And the night cometh—ne'er to pass from him—
There is no darkness like the cloud of mind,
On Grief's vain eye—the blindest of the blind!
Which may not—dare not see—but turns aside
To blackest shade—nor will endure a guide!
His heart was form'd for softness—warp'd to wrong—
Betray'd too early, and beguil'd too long; 1830
Each feeling pure—as falls the dropping dew
Within the grot; like that had harden'd too;—