For nought of ill his heart could understand,
But pity and wild sorrow for the same;—­
Not his the thirst for glory or command,

Baffled with blast of hope-consuming shame; 10
Nor evil joys which fire the vulgar breast,
And quench in speedy smoke its feeble flame,

Had left within his soul their dark unrest: 
Nor what religion fables of the grave
Feared he,—­Philosophy’s accepted guest. 15

For none than he a purer heart could have,
Or that loved good more for itself alone;
Of nought in heaven or earth was he the slave.

What sorrow, strange, and shadowy, and unknown,
Sent him, a hopeless wanderer, through mankind?—­ 20
If with a human sadness he did groan,

He had a gentle yet aspiring mind;
Just, innocent, with varied learning fed;
And such a glorious consolation find

In others’ joy, when all their own is dead:  25
He loved, and laboured for his kind in grief,
And yet, unlike all others, it is said

That from such toil he never found relief. 
Although a child of fortune and of power,
Of an ancestral name the orphan chief, 30

His soul had wedded Wisdom, and her dower
Is love and justice, clothed in which he sate
Apart from men, as in a lonely tower,

Pitying the tumult of their dark estate.—­
Yet even in youth did he not e’er abuse 35
The strength of wealth or thought, to consecrate

Those false opinions which the harsh rich use
To blind the world they famish for their pride;
Nor did he hold from any man his dues,

But, like a steward in honest dealings tried, 40
With those who toiled and wept, the poor and wise,
His riches and his cares he did divide.

Fearless he was, and scorning all disguise,
What he dared do or think, though men might start,
He spoke with mild yet unaverted eyes; 45

Liberal he was of soul, and frank of heart,
And to his many friends—­all loved him well—­
Whate’er he knew or felt he would impart,

If words he found those inmost thoughts to tell;
If not, he smiled or wept; and his weak foes 50
He neither spurned nor hated—­though with fell

And mortal hate their thousand voices rose,
They passed like aimless arrows from his ear—­
Nor did his heart or mind its portal close

To those, or them, or any, whom life’s sphere 55
May comprehend within its wide array. 
What sadness made that vernal spirit sere?—­

He knew not.  Though his life, day after day,
Was failing like an unreplenished stream,
Though in his eyes a cloud and burthen lay, 60