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, The faults which so many could find; And the love which my spirit hath painted Then when nature around me is smiling, Because it reminds me of thine; And when winds are at war with the ocean, If their billows excite an emotion, It is that they bear me from thee. Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd, 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 slander'd, thou never could'st shake,— Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd, It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee. SOLITUDE. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto ii. Stanzas 25, 26.) To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unroll'd. But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, And roam along, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; NATURE THE CONSOLER. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iii. Stanzas 13-15.) WHERE rose the mountains, there to him were friends; Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home; Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, He had the passion and the power to roam; The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, Were unto him companionship; they spake A mutual language, clearer than the tome Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the lake. Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, Till he had peopled them with beings bright As their own beams; and earth, and earth-born jars, Could he have kept his spirit to that flight To which it mounts, as if to break the link That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink. But in Man's dwellings he became a thing THE SAME. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iii. Stanzas 71-75.) Is it not better, then, to be alone, And love Earth only for its earthly sake? Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or bear? I live not in myself, but I become Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life; Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling. |