LXXXII.

But, midst the throng in merry masquerade, Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, Even through the closest searment[186] half betrayed? To such the gentle murmurs of the main Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain; To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain: How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud!