The search was follow'd close and long, in vain.
The rest was faint suspicion, rude surmise,
Where each man brings his mite of prodigies,
And what to all is dark, all will explain.
Few love the favourite, and their hate found food
In his low voice, his tears, his solitude,
Condemn'd him to the grand explainer Time,
And long'd to know the sentence, — and the crime.
Their master felt his loss; but one deep thought
Made all else light; and, duly at each eve,
The pilgrim wander'd to the hallow'd spot,
Where he had seen the vision that would leave
His heart, — yet not until its veins were cold.
But never more did he that page behold.