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"Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining-
But neither heat, not frost, nor thunder,
FARE thee well! and if for ever,
Would that breast were bared before thee Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee Which thou ne'er canst know again:
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Though the world for this commend thee
Though it smile upon the blow,
Though my many faults defaced me,
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;
Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus be torn away:
Still thine own its life retaineth,
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat: And the undying thought which painetb Is-that we no more may meet.
These are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead; Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widow'd bed.
And when thou wouldst solace gather,
Think of him thy love had bless'd!
Should her lineaments resemble
All my faults perchance thou knowest,
Every feeling hath been shaken ;
Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,
But 't is done-all words are idle-
Fare thee well! thus disunited,
March 18, 1816. April 4, 1816.
STANZAS FOR MUSIC
THERE be none of Beauty's daughters
Is thy sweet voice to me:
And the midnight moon is weaving
So the spirit bows before thee,
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
March 28, 1816. 1816.
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead!
Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed,
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,
Still must I on; for I am as a weed, Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.
In my youth's summer I did sing of One, The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind;
Again I seize the theme, then but begun, And bear it with me, as the rushing wind
Bears the cloud onwards: in that Tale I find
The furrows of long thought, and driedup tears,
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track be hind.
O'er which all heavily the journeying years
Plod the last sands of life,-where not a flower appears.
Since my young days of passion-joy, or pain,
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string,
And both may jar: it may be, that in vain
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate.
Something too much of this :-but now 't is past,
And the spell closes with its silent seal. Long absent HAROLD re-appears at last; He of the breast which fain no more would feel,
Wrung with the wounds which kill not but ne'er heal;
Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd him
In soul and aspect as in age: years steal Fire from the mind as vigor from the limb;
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen,
Entering with every step he took through many a scene.
Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'a Again in fancied safety with his kind, And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd And sheath'd with an invulnerable mind, That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind; And he, as one, might 'midst the many stand
Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find
Fit speculation; such as in strange land He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand.
But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor seek
To wear it? who can curiously behold The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek,
Nor feel the heart can never all grow old?
Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold
The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb ?
Harold, once more within the vortex, roll'd
On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime.
But soon he knew himself the most unfit Of men to herd with Man; with whom he held
Little in common; untaught to submit His thoughts to others, though his soul was quell'd
In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompell'd,
He would not yield dominion of his