Such the cold and sickening feeling Thou hast caused this heart to know Stabbed the deeper by concealing From the world its bitter wo. Once it fondly, proudly, deemed thee All that fancy's self could paint, Once it honored and esteemed thee As its idol and its saint! More than woman thou wast to me; Why "heap man's worst curse on me?" Wast thou but a fiend, assuming Friendship's smile, and woman's art, And, in borrow'd beauty blooming, Trifling with a trusted heart? By that eye which once could listen By that lip, its smile bestowing, Which could soften sorrow's gush ;By that cheek, once brightly glowing With pure friendship's well-feigned blush; By all those false charms united, Thou hast wrought thy wanton will, And, without compunction, blighted What "thou would'st not kindly kill." Yet I curse thee not in sadness, Still, I feel how dear thou wert; Live! and when my life is over, When thy beauties all are faded, When thy flatterers fawn no more,Ere the solemn shroud hath shaded Some regardless reptile's store, Ere that hour, false syren, hear me ! Thou may'st feel what I do now, While my spirit, hovering near thee, Whispers friendship's broken vow. But 'tis useless to upbraid thee With thy past or present state; What thou wast, my fancy made thee, What thou art, I know too late. STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA. OH, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled. Then away with all such from the head that is hoary What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory! Oh Fame! if I e'er took delight in thy praises, There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, |I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. December, 1821. IMPROMPTU, ON LADY BLESSINGTON EXPRESSING HER INTENTION OF TAKING THE VILLA CALLED "IL PARADISO," NEAR Genoa. BENEATH Blessington's eyes The reclaim'd Paradise Should be free as the former from evil; For an apple should grieve, What mortal would not play the Devil?* April, 1823 TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. You have ask'd for a verse:-the request In a rhymer 'twere strange to deny ; But my Hippocrene was but my breast, And my feelings (its fountain) are dry. Were I now as I was, I had sung What Lawrence had painted so well; But the strain would expire on my tongue, And the theme is too soft for my shell. I am ashes where once I was fire, My life is not dated by years There are moments which act as a plough, And there is not a furrow appears But is deep in my soul as my brow. Let the young and the brilliant aspire • The Genoese wits had already applied this threadbare jest to himal Taking into their heads that the villa had been fixed on for his own residence Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. they said, "ll Diavolo e ancroa entrano in Paradiso."--Moors. FAREWELL TO THE MUSE THOU Power! who hast ruled me through infancy's days, Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part; Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays, The coldest effusion which springs from my heart. This bosom, responsive to rapture no more, Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing; Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre, My visions are flown, to return,-alas, never! Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone, Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain! Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done, Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years, On the land of my fathers I reared thee with pride; They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide. I left thee, my Oak, and since that fatal hour, Oh! hardy thou wert-even now little care But thou wert not fated affection to share For who could suppose that a stranger would feel? Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for awhile; Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run, The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile, When Infancy's years of probation are done. Oh, live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the weeds, Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine, Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death, On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath. For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid; And as he with his boys shall revisit this spot, Untouch'd then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast-Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot: "Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavors are o'er: And those who have heard it will pardon the past, When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime, LINES. 1807. 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 ?-is it 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. • See Fragment, page 571. |