« AnteriorContinuar »
Yet oft my doubting Soul 'twill shake;
Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,
Thou art but now a lovely dream;
Then turned from earth its tender beam.
That scattered gladness o'er his path.
December 8, 1811. [First published, Childe Harold, 1812 (4to).]
ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM FREE.
ONE struggle more, and I am free
From pangs that rend my heart in twain;
Then back to busy life again.
It suits me well to mingle now
With things that never pleased before:
What future grief can touch me more ? iv.
i. To Thyrza.-[Editions 1812-1831.]
ii. From pangs that tear
Such pangs that tear
iii. With things that moved me not before.-[MS. erased.] iv. What sorrow cannot
Then bring me wine, the banquet bring;
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!
On many a lone and lovely night
Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye:
When sailing o'er the Ægean wave, "Now Thyrza gazes on that moon "Alas, it gleamed upon her grave!
5. When stretched on Fever's sleepless bed, And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins,
i. It would not be, so hadst not thou
Withdrawn so soon —.-
""Tis comfort still," I faintly said,"
"That Thyrza cannot know my pains:"
My life, when Thyrza ceased to live!
My Thyrza's pledge in better days,
Is silent-ah, were mine as still!
Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token!
Or break the heart to which thou'rt pressed.
More hallowed when its Hope is fled:
[First published, Childe Harold, 1812 (4to).]
how oft I said.-[MS. erased.]
ii. Like freedom to the worn-out slave.-[MS.]
A boon 'twas idle then to give,
Relenting Health in mocking gave.-[MS. B. M. erased.] iii. Dear simple gift-[MS. erased.]
1. [Compare My Epitaph: “Youth, Nature and relenting Jove.” -Letter to Hodgson, October 3, 1810, Letters, 1898, i. 298.]
WHEN Time, or soon or late, shall bring
Wave gently o'er my dying bed!
No band of friends or heirs be there,1
To feel, or feign, decorous woe.
But silent let me sink to Earth,
With no officious mourners near:
Yet Love, if Love in such an hour
Could nobly check its useless sighs,
In her who lives, and him who dies.
1. [Compare A Wish, by Matthew Arnold, stanza 3, etc.-
"Spare me the whispering, crowded room,
The friends who come and gape and go," etc.]
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;
"Aye 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,
[First published, Childe Harold, 1812 (Second Edition).]