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 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. 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! 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 life, when Thyrza ceased to live! C My Thyrza's pledge in better days, Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token! Or break the heart to which thou'rt press'd! EUTHANASIA. WHEN Time, or soon or late, shall bring No band of friends or heirs be there, No maiden, with dishevell'd hair, 66 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 : 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. |