Through which his soul, like Vesper’s serene beam
Piercing the chasms of ever rising clouds,
Shone, softly burning; though his lips did seem

Like reeds which quiver in impetuous floods;
And through his sleep, and o’er each waking hour, 65
Thoughts after thoughts, unresting multitudes,

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