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And the deaf tyranny of Fate,
Which for its pleasure doth create
Refused thee even the boon to die:
Was thine-and thou hast borne it well.
That in his hand the lightnings trembled.
Thy Godlike crime was to be kind,
The sum of human wretchedness,
Still in thy patient energy,
In the endurance, and repulse
Of thine impenetrable Spirit,
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse,
A mighty lesson we inherit :
Thou art a symbol and a sign
To Mortals of their fate and force;
Like thee, Man is in part divine,
A troubled stream from a pure source;
And Man in portions can foresee
His own funereal destiny;
His wretchedness, and his resistance,
And his sad unallied existence :
To which his Spirit may oppose
And a firm will, and a deep sense, Which even in torture can descry
Its own concenter'd recompense, Triumphant where it dares defy, And making Death a Victory.
DIODATI, July 1816.
SONNET ON CHILLON.
Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon thy prison is a holy place,
And thy sad floor an altar-for 'twas trod, Until his very steps have left a trace
Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface! For they appeal from tyranny to God.
STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
They say that Hope is happiness;
And all that Memory loves the most
Alas! it is delusion all:
The future cheats us from afar,
Nor dare we think on what we are.
SO, WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING.
So, we'll go no more a roving
Though the heart be still as loving,
For the sword outwears its sheath,
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.
STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA.
Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story;
What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
Oh FAME!-if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
Could Love for ever
Run like a river,
And Time's endeavour
Be tried in vain
No other pleasure
And like a treasure
We'd hug the chain.
Ends not in dying,
And, form'd for flying,
Love plumes his wing;
Then for this reason
Let's love a season;
But let that season be only Spring.
When lovers parted
A few years older,
For whom they sigh!
When link'd together,
In every weather,
They pluck Love's feather
He'll stay for ever,
But sadly shiver
Without his plumage, when past the Spring.
DONNA JULIA'S LETTER.
[From Don Juan. Canto I.]
They tell me 'tis decided you depart :
'Tis wise-'tis well, but not the less a pain;
Be on this sheet, 'tis not what it appears;
I loved, I love you; for this love have lost
So dear is still the memory of that dream ;
None can deem harshlier of me than I deem:
Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,
'Tis woman's whole existence; man may range The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart; Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange
Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,
And few there are whom these cannot estrange; Men have all these resources, we but one,
To love again, and be again undone.