By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest

The indistinctness of the suffering breast;

Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one, 1810

Which seeks from all the refuge found in none;

No words suffice the secret soul to show,

For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe.

On Conrad's stricken soul Exhaustion prest,

And Stupor almost lulled it into rest;

So feeble now—his mother's softness crept

To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept:

It was the very weakness of his brain,

Which thus confessed without relieving pain.

None saw his trickling tears—perchance, if seen, 1820

That useless flood of grief had never been:

Nor long they flowed—he dried them to depart,

In helpless—hopeless—brokenness of heart:

The Sun goes forth, but Conrad's day is dim:

And the night cometh—ne'er to pass from him.[io]

There is no darkness like the cloud of mind,

On Grief's vain eye—the blindest of the blind!

Which may not—dare not see—but turns aside

To blackest shade—nor will endure a guide!