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And yet there was a look that seem'd   As if at other times he dream'd    Of gentle thoughts he strove to press Back to their unsunn'd loneliness. Your first gaze cower'd beneath his glance, Keen like the flashing of a lance, As forced a homage to allow To that tall form, that stately brow; But the next dwelt upon the trace That time may bring, but not efface, Of cares that wasted life's best years, Of griefs seared more than sooth'd by tears, And homage changed to a sad feeling For a proud heart its grief concealing. If such his brow, when griefs that wear, And hopes that waste, were written there,