Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood

Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow,[z]

As if the Memory of some deadly feud

Or disappointed passion lurked below:

But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;

For his was not that open, artless soul

That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow,

Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,

Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control.