But, midst the throng in merry masquerade,

Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain,

Even through the closest searment[186] half betrayed?

To such the gentle murmurs of the main

Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain;

To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd

Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain:

How do they loathe the laughter idly loud,

And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud!