And the deaf tyranny of Fate, The wretched gift eternity Was thine-and thou hast borne it well That in his hand the lightnings trembled. III. 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: 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. I. They say that Hope is happiness; But genuine Love must prize the past, II. And all that Memory loves the most III. 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. I. So, we'll go no more a roving Though the heart be still as loving, II. For the sword outwears its sheath, III. Though the night was made for loving, 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; What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? VOL. IV. Oh FAME!-if I e'er took delight in thy praises, There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; 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. 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, Expect to die; Ah! how much colder For whom they sigh! When link'd together, They pluck Love's feather He'll stay for ever, But sadly shiver Without his plumage, when past the Spring. (1819.) 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 vessei, 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. |