86
And these, although they pushed down, as they rose,
His self-respect, and all those morning shews
Of true and perfect, which his youth had built,
Pushed with them too the worst of others guilt;
And furnished him, at least, with something kind,
On which to lean a sad and startled mind:
Till youth, and natural vigour, and the dread
Of self-betrayal, and a thought that spread
From time to time in gladness o'er his face,
That she he loved could have done nothing base,
Helped to restore him to his usual life,
Though grave at heart and with himself at strife;
And he would rise betimes, day after day,
And mount his favourite horse, and ride away
Miles in the country, looking round about,
As he glode by, to force his thoughts without;
And, when he found it vain, would pierce the shade
Of some enwooded field or closer glade,
His self-respect, and all those morning shews
Of true and perfect, which his youth had built,
Pushed with them too the worst of others guilt;
And furnished him, at least, with something kind,
On which to lean a sad and startled mind:
Till youth, and natural vigour, and the dread
Of self-betrayal, and a thought that spread
From time to time in gladness o'er his face,
That she he loved could have done nothing base,
Helped to restore him to his usual life,
Though grave at heart and with himself at strife;
And he would rise betimes, day after day,
And mount his favourite horse, and ride away
Miles in the country, looking round about,
As he glode by, to force his thoughts without;
And, when he found it vain, would pierce the shade
Of some enwooded field or closer glade,
