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The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my browIt felt like the warning
Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well :Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met
In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
After long years,
With silence and tears.
STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
“O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo: quater
THERE's not a joy the world can give like that it takes
away, When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull
decay ; 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which
fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be
Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of
happiness Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess : The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch
Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself
comes down ; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract
the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former
hope of rest; 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey
beneath. Oh could I feel as I have felt,—or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd
scene ; As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish
though they be, So, midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would
flow to me.
STANZAS TO AUGUSTA.
Though the day of my destiny's over,
And the star of my fate hath declined,
The faults which so many could find ;
It shrunk not to share it with me,
It never hath found but in thee.
Then when nature around me is smiling,
The last smile which answers to mine,
Because it reminds me of thine ;
As the breasts I believed in with me,
It is that they bear me from thee.
Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd,
And its fragments are sunk in the wave, Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd
To pain—it shall not be its slave. There is many a pang to pursue me :
They may crush, but they shall not contemnThey may torture, but shall not subdue me
'Tis of thee that I think not of them.
Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
Though woman, thou didst not forsake, Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
Though slander'd, thou never could'st shake,Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
Though parted, it was not to fly, Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,
Nor, mute, that the world might belie.
Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
Nor the war of the many with oneIf my soul was not fitted to prize it,
'Twas folly not sooner to shun : And if dearly that error hath cost me,
And more than I once could foresee, I have found that, whatever it lost me,
It could not deprive me of thee.
From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd,
Thus much I at least may recall,
Deserved to be dearest of all :
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.
(CHILDE HAROLD, Canto ii. Stanzas 25, 26.)
To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold
But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,
Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued;