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Yet oft my doubting Soul 'twill shake;
Ev'n 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 turned from earth its tender beam.
But he who through Life's dreary way
Must pass, when Heaven is veiled in wrath,
Will long lament the vanished ray

That scattered gladness o'er his path.

December 8, 1811. [First published, Childe Harold, 1812 (4to).]



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 ? iv.



-[MS. erased.]

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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;
Man was not formed 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 I


On many a lone and lovely night
It soothed to gaze upon the sky;
For then I deemed 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 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Withdrawn so soon —.-
-.-{MS. erased.]

""Tis comfort still," I faintly said,"

"That Thyrza cannot know my pains:"
Like freedom to the time-worn slave-ii.
A boon 'tis idle then to give-
Relenting Nature vainly gave1

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 hallowed when its Hope is fled:
Oh! what are thousand living loves
To that which cannot quit the dead?

[First published, Childe Harold, 1812 (4to).]


how oft I said.-[MS. erased.]

ii. Like freedom to the worn-out slave.-[MS.]
But Health and life returned and gave,

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
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,1
To weep, or wish, the coming blow:
No maiden, with dishevelled 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 fear.


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:

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;
For thousands Death hath ceased to lower,
And pain been transient or unknown.


"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,
Count o'er thy days from anguish free,
And know, whatever thou hast been,
'Tis something better not to be.

[First published, Childe Harold, 1812 (Second Edition).]

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