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III.

Alas! it is delusion all:

The future cheats us from afar,
Nor can we be what we recall,
Nor dare we think on what we are.

So, WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING.

I.

So, we'll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

II.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

III.

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.

(1817.)

STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA.

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled.
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary!
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory!

VOL. IV.

U

Oh FAME!-if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover,
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
1 knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.

November, 1821.

STANZAS.

Could Love for ever
Run like a river,
And Time's endeavour
Be tried in vain-
No other pleasure
With this could measure;
And like a treasure

We'd hug the chain.
But since our sighing
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
Feel broken-hearted,
And, all hopes thwarted,
Expect to die;

A few years older,
Ah! how much colder
They might behold her
For whom they sigh!

When link'd together,
In every weather,
They pluck Love's feather

From out his wing

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;
I have no further claim on your young heart,
Mine is the victim, and would be again:
To love too much has been the only art

I used; I write in haste, and if a stain
Be on this sheet, 'tis not what it appears;
My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears.

(1819.)

grace.

I loved, I love you; for this love have lost

State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem, And yet cannot regret what it hath cost,

So dear is still the memory of that dream;
Yet, if I name my guilt, 'tis not to boast,

None can deem harshlier of me than I deem:
I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest-
I've nothing to reproach or to request.

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.

A

You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride,
Beloved and loving many; all is o'er
For me on earth, except some years to hide

My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core:
These I could bear, but cannot cast aside

The passion which still rages as before,And so farewell-forgive me, love me-No, That word is idle now-but let it go.

My breast has been all weakness, is so yet;
But still I think I can collect my mind;
My blood still rushes where my spirit's set,

As roll the waves before the settled wind;
My heart is feminine, nor can forget-

To all, except one image, madly blind,
So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole,
As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul.

I have no more to say, but linger still,

And dare not set my seal upon this sheet, And yet I may as well the task fulfil,

My misery can scarce be more complete : I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill;

Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet,

And I must even survive this last adieu,
And bear with life, to love and pray for you!

FIRST LOVE.

[From the same.

'Tis sweet to hear

At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep The song and oar of Adria's gondolier,

By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep; 'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear;

'Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.

'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark

Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home; 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark

Our coming, and look brighter when we come ; 'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark,

Or lull'd by falling waters; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, The lisp of children, and their earliest words.

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes
In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth,
Purple and gushing; sweet are our escapes
From civic revelry to rural mirth;
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps,

Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth, Sweet is revenge-especially to women, Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen.

Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet

The unexpected death of some old lady Or gentleman of seventy years complete,

Who've made us youth' wait too-too long already

For an estate, or cash, or country seat,

Still breaking, but with stamina so steady
That all the Israelites are fit to mob its
Next owner for their double-damn'd post-obits.

'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels,
By blood or ink; 'tis sweet to put an end
To strife; 'tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels,

Particularly with a tiresome friend:

Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ;

Dear is the helpless creature we defend Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot.

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,
Is first and passionate love—it stands alone,
Like Adam's recollection of his fall;

The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd-all's known

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