To him the magic of their mysteries;
To him the book of Night was open'd wide,
And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd
A marvel and a secret.-Be it so.

IX.

My dream is past; it had no further change. It was of a strange order, that the doom

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out Almost like a reality-the one

To end in madness-both in misery.

LINES

ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.

AND thou wert sad-yet I was not with thee! And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near; Methought that joy and health alone could be Where I was not-and pain and sorrow here! And is it thus?-it is as I foretold,

And shall be more so; for the mind recoils Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold, While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils. It is not in the storm nor in the strife,

We feel benumb'd, and wish to be no more,
But in the after-silence on the shore,
When all is lost, except a little life.

I am too well avenged!--but 'twas my right!
Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent
To be the Nemesis who should requite-
Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument.
Mercy is for the merciful!-if thou
Hast been of such, 'twill be accorded now.
Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of
sleep!-

Yes! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel
A hollow agony which will not heal,
For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep;
Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap
The bitter harvest in a woe as real!
I have had many foes, but none like thee;

For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend, And be avenged, or turn them into friend; But thou in safe implacability

Hadst nought to dread-in thy own weakness shielded,

And in my love, which hath but too much yielded,

And spared, for thy sake, some I should not

spare;

And thus upon the world-trust in thy truth, And the wild fame of my ungovern'd youth

On things that were not, and on things that

are

Even upon such a basis hast thou built
A monument, whose cement hath been guilt!
The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord,
And hew'd down with an unsuspected sword,
Fame, peace, and hope-and all the better life

Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart, Might still have risen from out the grave of strife,

And found a nobler duty than to part.
But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice,
Trafficking with them in a purpose cold,
For present anger, and for future gold-
And buying other's grief at any price.
And thus once enter'd into crooked ways,
The early truth, which was thy proper praise,
Did not still walk beside thee-but at times,
And with a breast unknowing its own crimes,
Deceit, averments incompatible,

Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell
În Janus-spirits-the significant eye
Which learns to lie with silence-the pretext
Of prudence, with advantages annex'd-
The acquiescence in all things which tend,
No matter how, to the desired end-

All found a place in thy philosophy..
The means were worthy, and the end is won-
I would not do by thee as thou hast done!

LONG years! It tries the thrilling frame to bear,
And eagle-spirit of a child of Song-
Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong;
Imputed madness, prison'd solitude,
And the mind's canker in its savage mood,
When the impatient thirst of light and air
Parches the heart; and the abhorred grate,
Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade,
Works through the throbbing eyeball to the
brain,

With a hot sense of heaviness and pain;
And bare, at once, Captivity display'd
Stands scoffing through the never-open'd gate,
Which nothing through its bars admits, save day,

And tasteless food, which I have eat alone
Till its unsocial bitterness is gone;
And I can banquet like a beast of prey,
Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave
Which is my lair, and-it may be-my grave.
All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear,
But must be borne. I stoop not to despair;
For I have battled with mine agony,
And made me wings wherewith to overfly
The narrow circus of my dungeon wall,
And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall;
And revell'd among men and things divine,
And pour'd my spirit over Palestine
In honour of the sacred war for Him,
The God who was on earth and is in heaven,

For he has strengthen'd me in heart and limb. That through this sufferance I might be forgiven,

I have employ'd my penance to record
How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored.

II.

But this is o'er-my pleasant task is done;-
My long-sustaining friend of many years!
If I do blot thy final page with tears,
Know that my sorrows have wrung from me

none.

But thou, my young creation! my soul's child!
Which ever playing round me came and smiled,
And woo'd me from myself with thy sweet sight,
Thou too art gone-and so is my delight:
And therefore do I weep and inly bleed
With this last bruise upon a broken reed.
Thou too art ended-what is left me now?
For I have anguish yet to bear-and how?
I know not that-but in the innate force
Of my own spirit shall be found resource.
I have not sunk, for I had no remorse,
Nor cause for such: they call'd me mad-and
why?

O Leonora, wilt not thou reply?
I was indeed delirious in my heart
To lift my love so lofty as thou art:

But still my frenzy was not of the mind;
I knew my fault, and feel my punishment
Not less because I suffer it unbent.
That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind,
Hath been the sin which shuts me from man-
kind;

But let them go, or torture as they will,
My heart can multiply thine image still;
Successful love may sate itself away,
The wretched are the faithful; 'tis their fate
To have all feeling save the one decay,
And every passion into one dilate,
As rapid rivers into ocean pour;

And ours is fathomless, and hath no shore.

III.

Above me, hark! the long and maniac cry Of minds and bodies in captivity. And hark! the lash and the increasing howl, And the half-inarticulate blasphemy! There be some here with worse than frenzy foul, Some who do still goad on the o'erlabour'd mind, And dim the little light that's left behind With needless torture, as their tyrant will Is wound up to the lust of doing ill: With these and with their victims am I class'd, 'Mid sounds and sights like these long years have pass'd; 'Mid sights and sounds like these my life may close:

So let it be for then I shall repose.

IV.

I have been patient-let me be so yet;
I had forgotten half I would forget,
But it revives-oh! would it were my lot
To be forgetful as I am forgot!-

Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell
In this vast lazar-house of many woes?
Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the
mind,

Nor words a language, nor even men mankind;
Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows,
And each is tortured in his separate hell-
For we are crowded in our solitudes-

Many, but each divided by the wall,
Which echoes Madness in her babbling moods,
While all can hear, none heed his neighbour's
call-

None! save that One, the veriest wretch of all
Who was not made to be the mate of these,
Nor bound between Distraction and Disease.
Feel I not wreth with those who placed me here !
Who have debased me in the minds of men,

fear?

Debarring me the usage of my own,
Blighting my life in best of its career,
Branding my thoughts as things to shun and
Would I not pay them back these pangs again,
And teach them inward Sorrow's stifled groan,
The struggle to be calm, and cold distress?
Which undermines our stoical success?
No!-still too proud to be vindictive-I
Have pardon'd princes' insults, and would die,
Yes, Sister of my Sovereign! for thy sake
I weed all bitterness from out my breast,
It hath no business where thou art a guest:
Thy brother hates-but I can not detest;
Thou pitiest not-but I can not forsake.

V.

Look on a love which knows not to despair,
But all unquench'd is still my better part,
Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart,
As dwells the gather'd lightning in its cloud,
Encompass'd with its dark and rolling shroud,
Till struck-forth flies the all-ethereal dart!
And thus at the collision of thy name
The vivid thought still flashes through my frame,
And for a moment all things as they were
Flit by me: they are gone-I am the same.
And yet my love without ambition grew;
I knew thy state, my station, and I knew
A Princess was no love-mate for a bard:

I told it not, I breathed it not; it was
Sufficient to itself, its own reward:
And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas,
Were punish'd by the silentness of thine,
And yet I did not venture to repine.
Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine,
Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around
Hallow'd and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground:
Not for thou wert a princess, but that Love
Had robed thee with a glory, and array'd
Thy lineaments in beauty that dismay'd-
Oh! not dismay'd-but awed, like One above;
And in that sweet severity there was
A something which all softness did surpass;
My star stood still before thee: if it were
I know not how-thy genius master'd mine-
Presumptuous thus to love without design,
That sad fatality hath cost me dear;

But thou art dearest still, and I should be
Fit for this cell, which wrongs me-but for thee.
The very love which lock'd me to my chain
Hath lighten'd half its weight; and for the rest,
Though heavy, lent me vigour to sustain,
And look to thee with undivided breast,
And foil the ingenuity of Pain.

VI.

It is no marvel-from my very birth
My soul was drunk with love, which did per-
vade

And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth;
Of objects all inanimate I made

Jdols, and out of wild and lonely flowers,

And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise,
Where I did lay me down within the shade
Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours,
Though I was chid for wandering; and the Wise
Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said
Of such materials wretched men were made,
And such a truant boy would end in woe,
And that the only lesson was a blow.
And then they smote me, and I did not weep,
But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt
Return'd and wept alone, and dream'd again
The visions which arise without a sleep,
And with my years my soul began to pant
With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain;
And the whole heart exhaled into One Want,
But undefined and wandering, till the day
I found the thing I sought-and that was thee;
And then I lost my being, all to be
Absorb'd in thine-the world was pass'd away-
Thou didst annihilate the earth to me!
VII.

I loved all Solitude, but little thought
To spend I know not what of life, remote
From all communion with existence, save
The maniac and his tyrant: had I been
Their fellow, many years ere this had seen
My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave.
But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me rave?

Perchance in such a cell we suffer more
Than the wreck'd sailor on his desert shore:
The world is all before him-mine is here,
Scarce twice the space they must accord my

bier.

What though he perish, he may lift his eye,
And with a dying glance upbraid the sky;
I will not raise my own in such reproof,
Although 'tis clouded by my dungeon roof.

VIII.

Yet do I feel at times my mind decline,
But with a sense of its decay ;-I see
Unwonted lights along my prison shine,
And a strange demon, who is vexing me
With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below
The feeling of the healthful and the free;
But much to One, who long hath suffer'd so.
Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place.
And all that may be borne or can debase,
I thought mine enemies had been but Man,
But spirits may be leagued with them; all Earth
Abandons, Heaven forgets me: in the dearth
Of such defence the Powers of Evil can,

It may be, tempt me further, and prevail
Against the outworn creature they assail.
Why in this furnace is my spirit proved
Like steel in tempering fire ?-because I loved?
Because I loved what not to love, and see,
Was more or less than mortal, and than me

IX.

I once was quick in feeling-that is o'er :
My scars are callous, or I should have dash'd
My brain against these bars, as the sun flash'd
In mockery through them: If I bear and bore
The much I have recounted, and the more
Which hath no words-'tis that I would not die,
And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie
Which snared me here, and with the brand of
shame

Stamp Madness deep into my memory,
And woo Compassion to a blighted name,
Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim.
No-it shall be immortal! and I make
A future temple of my present cell,
Which nations yet shall visit for my sake.
While thou, Ferrara, when no longer dwell
The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall down,
And crumbling piecemeal view thy heartless
halls,

A poet's wreath shall be thy only crown-
A poet's dungeon thy most far renown,
While strangers wonder o'er thy unpeopled
walls!

That such as I could love-who blush'd to hear
And thou, Leonora ! thou-who wert ashamed
To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear,
Go! tell thy brother that my heart, untamed
By grief, years, weariness-and it may be
A taint of that he would impute to me-
From long infection of a den like this,
Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss-
Adores thee still; and add-that when the towers
And battlements which guard his joyous hours
Of banquet, dance, and revel are forgot,
Or left untended in a dull repose,

This, this, shall be a consecrated spot!
But Thou-when all that Birth and Beauty
throws

Of magic round thee is extinct-shalt have One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave. No power in death can tear our names apart, As none in life could rend thee from my heart. Yes, Leonora ! it shall be our fate

To be entwined for ever-but too late!

Till all was past? But when no more
'Twas thine to reck of human woe,
Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,
Had flow'd as fast-as now they flow.
Shall they not flow, when many a day
In these, to me, deserted towers,
Ere call'd but for a time away,

Affection's mingling tears were ours?
Ours too the glance none saw beside,

The smile none else might understand;
The whisper'd thoughts of hearts allied,
The pressure of the thrilling hand;
The kiss, so guiltless and refined,

That Love each warmer wish forbore; Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind, Even passion blush'd to plead for more. The tone, that taught me to rejoice,

When prone, unlike thee, to repine; The song, celestial from thy voice,

But sweet to me from none but thine; The pledge we wore-I wear it still,

But where is thine ?-Ah! where art thou? Oft have 1 borne the weight of ill,

But never bent beneath till now!
Well hast thou left in life's best bloom
The cup of woe for me to drain.
If rest alone be in the tomb,

I would not wish thee here again.
But if in worlds more blest than this
Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere,
Impart some portion of thy bliss,

To wean me from mine anguish here.
Teach me too early taught by thee!
To bear, forgiving and forgiven:
On earth thy love was such to me;

It fain would form my hope in heaven!

AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WOE! AWAY, away, ye notes of woe!

Be silent, thou once soothing strain, Or I must flee from hence-for, oh!

I dare not trust those sounds again. To me they speak of brighter days

But lull the chords, for now, alas! I must not think, I may not gaze,

On what I am-on what I was.

The voice that made those sounds more sweet
Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled;
And now their softest notes repeat
A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead!
Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee,
Beloved dust! since dust thou art;
And all that once was harmony

Is worse than discord to my heart. 'Tis silent all!--but on my ear

The well-remember'd echoes thrill;
I hear a voice I would not hear,
A voice that now might well be still:
Yet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake,
Even slumber owns its gentle tone,
Till consciousness will vainly wake

To listen, though the dream be flown.
Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,
Thou art but now a lovely dream;
A star that trembled o'er the deep,

Then turn'd from earth its tender beam.

But he who through life's dreary way

Must pass when heaven is veil'd in wrath, Will long lament the vanish'd ray

That scatter'd gladness o'er his path.

ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM
FREE.

ONE struggle more, and I am free

From pangs that rend my heart in twain; One last long sigh to love and thee,

Then back to busy life again.

It suits me well to mingle now
With things that never pleased before:
Though every joy is fled below,

What future grief can touch me more?
Then bring me wine, the banquet bring;
Man was not form'd to live alone:
I'll be that light, unmeaning thing
That smiles with all, and weeps with none
It was not thus in days more dear,

It never would have been, but thou Hast fled, and left me lonely here,

Thou'rt nothing-all are nothing now. In vain my lyre would lightly breathe! The smile that sorrow fain would wear But mocks the woe that lurks beneath, Like roses o'er a sepulchre. Though gay companions o'er the bowl Dispel awhile the sense of ill; Though pleasure fires the maddening soul, The heart,-the heart is lonely still!

On many a lone and lovely night

It soothed to gaze upon the sky; For then I deem'd the heavenly light

Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye: And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, When sailing o'er the Ægean wave, "Now Thyrza gazes on that moon"

Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave! When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed, And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins ""Tis comfort still," I faintly said,

"That Thyrza cannot know my pains:"
Like freedom to the time-worn slave,
A boon 'tis idle then to give,
Relenting Nature vainly gave

My life, when Thyrza ceased to live!
My Thyrza's pledge in better days,
When love and life alike were new!
How different now thou meet'st my gaze!
How tinged by time with sorrow's hue!
The heart that gave itself with thee

Is silent-ah, were mine as still!
Though cold as e'en the dead can be,
It feels, it sickens with the chill.
Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token
Though painful, welcome to my breast!
Still, still preserve that love unbroken,

Or break the heart to which thou'rt pressed. Time tempers love, but not removes,

More hallow'd when its hope is fled : Oh! what are thousand living loves To that which cannot quit the dead?

EUTHANASIA.

WHEN Time, or soon or late, shall bring The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead.

Oblivion may thy languid wing
Wave gently o'er my dying bed!
No band of friends or heirs be there,
To weep, or wish, the coming blow:
No maiden, with dishevell'd hair,

To feel, or feign, decorous woe.
But silent let me sink to earth,

With no officious mourners near: I would not mar one hour of mirth, Nor startle friendship with a tear. Yet Love, if Love in such an hour

Could nobly check its useless sighs, Might then exert its latest power

In her who lives, and him who dies. "Twere sweet, my Psyche, to the last Thy features still serene to see: Forgetful of its struggle past,

E'en Pain itself should smile on thee. But vain the wish-for Beauty still

Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath; And woman's tears, produced at will, Deceive in life, unman in death. Then lonely be my latest hour,

Without regret, without a groan;

For thousands Death hath ceased to lower, And pain been transient or unknown. "Ay, but to die, and go," alas!

Where all have gone, and all must go! To be the nothing that I was

Ere born to life and living woe! Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, Count o'er thy days from anguish free, And know, whatever thou hast been, 'Tis something better not to be.

AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG
AND FAIR.

"Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse!

AND thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;
And form so soft, and charms so rare,
Too soon return'd to Earth!
Though earth received them in her bed,
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
In carelessness or mirth,

There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.

I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon the spot;
There flowers or weeds at will may grow,
So I behold them not:

It is enough for me to prove
That what I loved, and long must love,
Like common earth can rot;
To me there needs no stone to tell,
"Tis nothing that I loved so well.
Yet did I love thee to the last

As fervently as thou,

Who didst not change through all the past,
And canst not alter now.

The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,

Nor falsehood disavow:

And, what were worse, thou canst not see Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.

The better days of life were ours;
The worst can be but mine:

The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,
Shall never more be thine.

The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;
Nor need I to repine

That all those charms have pass'd away:
I might have watch'd through long decay.
The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
The leaves must drop away:
And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
Than see it pluck'd to-day;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.
I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;
The night that followed such a morn
Had worn a deeper shade:
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,
And thou wert lovely to the last :
Extinguish'd, not decay'd;

As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.
As once I wept, if I could weep,
My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o'er thy bed;
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,

Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.
Yet how much less it were to gain,

Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain,
Than thus remember thee!
The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread Eternity
Returns again to me,

And more thy buried love endears
Than aught, except its living years.

IF SOMETIMES IN THE HAUNTS OF
MEN.

IF sometimes in the haunts of men

Thine image from my breast may fade, The lonely hour presents again

The semblance of thy gentle shade:
And now that sad and silent hour

Thus much of thee can still restore,
And sorrow unobserved may pour
The plaint she dare not speak before.
Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile

I waste one thought I owe to thee,
And, self-condemn'd, appear to smile,
Unfaithful to thy memory!
Nor deem that memory less dear,
That then I seem not to repine;

I would not fools should overhear
One sigh that should be wholly thine.
If not the goblet pass unquaff'd,

It is not drain'd to banish care;
The cup must hold a deadlier draught,
That brings a Lethe for despair.