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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
Like roses o'er a sepulchre.
Dispel awhile the sense of ill ;
The heart—the heart is lonely still !
On many a lone and lovely night
It sooth'd 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!
5. When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed,
And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, 66 '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 prest! 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 ?
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 wo.
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 fear.
4. 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 struggles 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.
8. “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 wo!
Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen,
Count o'er thy days from anguish free, And know, whatever thou has been,
'Tis something better not to be.
Heu quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse !"
And thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth ;
Too soon return'd to Earth!
In carelessness or mirth,