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When we two parted
In silence and tears,
To sever for
years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning
browIt felt like the warning
Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
Why wert thou so dear?
Who knew thee too well:Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met
In silence I grieve,
Thy spirit deceive.
After long years,
With silence and tears.
STANZAS FOR MUSIC*.
“ O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
THERE's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull
decay; 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which
fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.
Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of
happiness, Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess : The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch
These Verses were given by Lord Byron to Mr. Power, Strand, who has published them, with very beautiful music by Sir John Stevenson.
Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes
It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice
4. Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract
the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former
hope of rest; "Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray
Oh could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanishd
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though
they be, So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow
STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
THERE be none of Beauty's daughters
With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lulld winds seem dreaming,
And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep;
As an infant's asleep: