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40 Whose hope was like the life of youth Within him, and when dead, became A spirit of unresting flame, Which goaded him in his distress Over the world's vast wilderness. Three years he left his native land, And on the fourth, when he returned, None knew him: he was striken deep With some disease of mind, and turned Into aught unlike Lionel. On him, on whom? did he pause in sleep, Serenest smiles were wont to keep, And, did he wake, a winged band Of bright persuasions, which had fed On his sweet lips and liquid eyes, Kept their swift pinions half outspread, To do on men his least command; On him, whom once 'twas paradise Even to behold, now misery lay: In his own heart 'twas merciless, To all things else none may express Its innocence and tenderness.