Shrunk from him with recoiling start;
His mien was youthful—yet his face
Had nought of youth’s ingenuous grace;
Nor chivalrous nor tender thought
Its traces on his brow had wrought
Yet dwelt no fierceness in his eye,
But calm and cold severity,
A spirit haughtily austere,
Stranger to pity as to fear.
It seem’d as pride had thrown a veil