Puslapio vaizdai
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And a firm will, and a deep sense, Which even in torture can descry

Its own concenter'd recompense, Triumphant where it dares defy, And making Death a Victory.

DIODATI, July 1816

SONNET ON CHILLON.

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art,
For there thy habitation is the heart-
The heart which love of thee alone can bind;
And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd-

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon thy prison is a holy place,

And thy sad floor an altar-for 'twas trod, Until his very steps have left a trace

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface! For they appeal from tyranny to God.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

They say that Hope is happiness;

But genuine Love must prize the past,
And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless:
They rose the first-they set the last;

II.

And all that Memory loves the most
Was once our only Hope to be,
And all that Hope adored and lost
Hath melted into Memory.

III.

Alas! it is delusion all:

The future cheats us from afar,
Nor can we be what we recall,

Nor dare we think on what we are.

So, WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING.

1.

So, we'll go no more a roving
So late into the night,

Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

II.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

III.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,

Yet we'll go no more a roving

By the light of the moon.

(1817.)

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
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

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!

VOL. IV.

Oh FAME!-if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover,
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

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.

November, 1821.

STANZAS.

Could Love for ever

Run like a river,

And Time's endeavour

Be tried in vain

No other pleasure

With this could measure;

And like a treasure

We'd hug the chain.

But since our sighing

Ends not in dying,

And, form'd for flying,

Love plumes his wing;

Then for this reason

Let's love a season;

But let that season be only Spring.

When lovers parted
Feel broken-hearted,
And, all hopes thwarted,

Expect to die;
A few years older,

Ah! how much colder
They might behold her

For whom they sigh!

When link'd together,
In every weather,

They pluck Love's feather
From out his wing-

He'll stay for ever,

But sadly shiver

Without his plumage, when past the Spring.

(1819

DONNA JULIA'S LETTER.

[From Don Juan. Canto I.]

They tell me 'tis decided you depart:

'Tis wise-'tis well, but not the less a pain ;
I have no further claim on your young heart,
Mine is the victim, and would be again:
To love too much has been the only art
I used; I write in haste, and if a stain

Be on this sheet, 'tis not what it appears;
My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears

I loved, I love you; for this love have lost
State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem,
And yet cannot regret what it hath cost,

So dear is still the memory of that dream;
Yet, if I name my guilt, 'tis not to boast,

None can deem harshlier of me than I deem:
I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest-
I've nothing to reproach or to request.

Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,

'Tis woman's whole existence; man may range The court, camp, church, the vessei, and the mart; Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange

Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,

And few there are whom these cannot estrange; Men have all these resources, we but one,

To love again, and be again undone.

You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride,
Beloved and loving many; all is o'er
For me on earth, except some years to hide

My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core:
These I could bear, but cannot cast aside
The passion which still rages as before,-
And so farewell-forgive me, love me-No,
That word is idle now-but let it go.

My breast has been all weakness, is so yet;
But still I think I can collect my mind;
My blood still rushes where my spirit's set,
As roll the waves before the settled wind;
My heart is feminine, nor can forget-

To all, except one image, madly blind,
So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole,
As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul.

I have no more to say, but linger still,
And dare not set my seal upon this sheet,
And yet I may as well the task fulfil,

My misery can scarce be more complete:
I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill;

Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet,

And I must even survive this last adieu,

And bear with life, to love and pray for you!

FIRST LOVE

[From the same.

'Tis sweet to hear

At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep The song and oar of Adria's gondolier,

By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep; Tis sweet to see the evening star appear;

'Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.

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