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'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it hath ceased to move; Yet, though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief

Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys

Is lone as some volcanic isle ; No torch is kindled at its blaze

A funeral pile !

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,

The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share,

But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus—and 'tis not here

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,

Glory and Greece, around me see ! The Spartan, borne upon his shield,

Was not more free.

Awake ! (not Greece—she is awake !)

Awake, my spirit! Think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,

And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,

Unworthy manhood !-unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown

Of beauty be.

If thou regret'st thy youth, why lire ?

The land of honourable death
Is here :-up to the field, and give

Away thy breath !

Seek out-less often sought than found

A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,

And take thy rest.


(Don Juan, Canto xv. Stanza 99.)

BETWEEN two worlds life hovers like a star,

'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge. How little do we know that which we are !

How less what we may be! The eternal surge Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar

Our bubbles ; as the old burst, new emerge, Lash'd from the foam of ages; while the graves Of empires heave but like some passing waves.




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