With all that chilling mystery of mien,

And seeming gladness to remain unseen,

He had (if 'twere not nature's boon) an art

Of fixing memory on another's heart:

It was not love perchance—nor hate—nor aught

That words can image to express the thought;

But they who saw him did not see in vain,

And once beheld—would ask of him again:

And those to whom he spake remembered well,

And on the words, however light, would dwell: 370

None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwined

Himself perforce around the hearer's mind;[js]

There he was stamped, in liking, or in hate,

If greeted once; however brief the date

That friendship, pity, or aversion knew,[jt]

Still there within the inmost thought he grew.

You could not penetrate his soul, but found,

Despite your wonder, to your own he wound;

His presence haunted still; and from the breast[ju]

He forced an all unwilling interest: 380

Vain was the struggle in that mental net—

His Spirit seemed to dare you to forget!