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Maid of Athens! I am gone;
Think of me, sweet! when alone.
Athens holds my heart and soul:
NAY, smile not at my sullen brow;
Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain.
And dost thou ask, what secret woe
It is not love, it is not hate,
Nor low Ambition's honours lost,
It is that weariness which springs
It is that settled, ceaseless gloom
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore; That will not look beyond the tomb,
But cannot hope for rest before.
What Exile from himself can flee?
To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where-e'er I be,
The blight of life-the demon thought.
Yet others wrapt in pleasure seem,
Through many a clime 'tis mine to go,
Whate'er betides, I've known the worst.
What is that worst? Nay do not ask—
In pity from the search forbear;
Smile on-nor venture to unmask
Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there.
"ONE STRUGGLE MORE."
"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?
Then bring me wine, the banquet bring;
That smiles with all, and weeps with none.
In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!
Though pleasure fires the maddening soul,
On many a lone and lovely night
When sailing o'er the Ægean wave, "Now Thyrza gazes on that moon
Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave!
When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed,
And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins,
""Tis comfort still," I faintly said,
"That Thyrza cannot know my pains :"
My Thyrza's pledge in better days,
Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token!
Or break the heart to which thou'rt press'd!
Oh! what are thousand living loves
WHEN Time, or soon or late, shall bring
No band of friends or heirs be there,
No maiden, with dishevell'd hair,
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.
'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.
'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 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.