Days roll along, and Otho's wounds are healed,

But not his pride; and hate no more concealed:

He was a man of power, and Lara's foe,

The friend of all who sought to work him woe,

And from his country's justice now demands

Account of Ezzelin at Lara's hands.

Who else than Lara could have cause to fear

His presence? who had made him disappear,

If not the man on whom his menaced charge 780

Had sate too deeply were he left at large?

The general rumour ignorantly loud,

The mystery dearest to the curious crowd;

The seeming friendliness of him who strove

To win no confidence, and wake no love;

The sweeping fierceness which his soul betrayed,

The skill with which he wielded his keen blade;

Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art?

Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart?

For it was not the blind capricious rage[kl] 790

A word can kindle and a word assuage;

But the deep working of a soul unmixed

With aught of pity where its wrath had fixed;

Such as long power and overgorged success

Concentrates into all that's merciless:

These, linked with that desire which ever sways

Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise,

'Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm,

Such as himself might fear, and foes would form,

And he must answer for the absent head 800

Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead.