With strange and dusky aspects; he was not
Himself like what he had been; on the sea
And on the shore he was a wanderer.

There was a mass of many images
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was
A part of all; and in the last he lay
Reposing from the noontide sultriness,
Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade
Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names
Of those who rear'd them; by his sleeping side
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds
Were fasten'd near a fountain; and a man
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while,
While many of his tribe slumber'd around:
And they were canopied by the blue sky,
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,
That God alone was to be seen in heaven.

V.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The lady of his love was wed with one
Who did not love her better: in her home,
A thousand leagues from his,―her native home,
She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy,
Daughters and sons of beauty,-but behold!
Upon her face there was the tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye,
As if its lids were charged with unshed tears.
What could her grief be?-she had all she loved,
And he who had so loved her was not there
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,
Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts.
What could her grief be?—she had loved him not,
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved,
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd
Upon her mind-a spectre of the past.

VI.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The wanderer was return'd.--I saw him stand
Before an altar-with a gentle bride;

Her face was fair, but was not that which made
The star-light of his boyhood ;-as he stood
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came
The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock
That in the antique oratory shook

His bosom in its solitude; and then

As in that hour-a moment o'er his face

The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded as it came,
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words,
And all things reel'd around him; he could see
Not that which was, nor that which should have
been-

But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall,
And the remember'd chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine and the shade,
All things pertaining to that place and hour,
And her who was his destiny, came back,
And thrust themselves between him and the
light:

What business had they there at such a time?

VII.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The lady of his love;-oh! she was changed

As by the sickness of the soul; her mind
Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes,
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things;
And forms, impalpable and unperceived
Of others' sight, familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful gift;
What is it but the telescope of truth?
Which strips the distance of its phantasies,
And brings life near in utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality too real!

VIII.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The wanderer was alone as heretofore,
The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war with him; he was a mark
For blight and desolation, compass'd round
With hatred and contention; pain was mix'd
In all which was served up to him, until,
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,*
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived
Through that which had been death to many
men,

And made him friends of mountains: with the

stars

And the quick spirit of the universe
He held his dialogues; and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries;
To him the book of night was open'd wide,
And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd
A marvel and a secret-be it so.

IX.

My dream was past; it had no further change. It was of a strange order, that the doom

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out Almost like a reality-the one

To end in madness-both in misery.

TO THYRZA.

WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot,

And say, what truth might well have said, By all, save one, perchance forgot,

Ah, wherefore art thou lowly laid? By many a shore and many a sea

Divided, yet beloved in vain ; The past, the future fled to thee

To bid us meet-no-ne'er again! Could this have been-a word, a look,

That softly said, "We part in peace," Had taught my bosom how to brook,

With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. And didst thou not, since death for thee Prepared a light and pangless dart, Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see, Who held, and holds thee in his heart?

*Mithridates of Pontus.

Oh! who like him had watch'd thee here?
Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye,
In that dread hour ere death appear,
When silent sorrow fears to sigh,
Till all is past? But when no more

'Twas thine to reck of human woe, Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,

Had flow'd as fast-as now they flow
Shall they not flow, when many a day
In these, to me, deserted towers,
Ere call'd but for a time away,

Affection's mingling tears were ours?
Ours too the glance none saw beside ;

The smile none else might understand;
The whisper'd thoughts of hearts allied,
The pressure of the thrilling hand;
The kiss so guiltless and refined,

That love each warmer wish forbore:
Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind,
Even passion blush'd to plead for more.
The tone, that taught me to rejoice,
When prone, unlike thee, to repine ;
The song celestial from thy voice,

But sweet to me from none but thine; The pledge we wore-I wear it still,

But where is thine ?-ah, where art thou? Oft have I borne the weight of ill,

But never bent beneath till now!
Well hast thou left in life's best bloom
The cup of woe for me to drain.
If rest alone be in the tomb,

I would not wish thee here again;
But if in worlds more blest than this

Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere, Impart some portion of thy bliss,

To wean me from mine anguish here.
Teach me too early taught by thee!

To bear, forgiving and forgiven:
On earth thy love was such to me,
It fain would form my hope in heaven!

STANZAS.

AWAY, away, ye notes of woe!

Be silent, thou once soothing strain, Or I must flee from hence, for, oh!

I dare not trust those sounds again. To me they speak of brighter daysBut lull the chords, for now, alas! I must not think, I may not gaze On what I am, on what I was.

The voice that made those sounds more sweet
Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled;
And now their softest notes repeat

A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead!
Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee,
Beloved dust! since dust thou art;
And all that once was harmony

Is worse than discord to my heart!

'Tis silent all!-but on my ear

The well-remember'd echoes thrill; I hear a voice I would not hear,

A voice that now might well be still;

Yet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake :
Even slumber owns its gentle tone,
Till consciousness will vainly wake
To listen, though the dream be flown.

Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,

Thou art but now a lovely dream; A star that trembled o'er the deep,

Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. But he who through life's dreary way Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath Will long lament the vanish'd ray That scatter'd gladness o'er his path.

TO THYRZA.

ONE struggle more, and I am free
From pangs that rend my heart in twain,
One last long sigh to love and thee,

Then back to busy life again.
It suits me well to mingle now

With things that never pleased before. Though every joy is fled below,

What future grief can touch me more?

Then bring me wine, the banquet bring;
Man was not form'd to live alone:
I'll be that light unmeaning thing

That smiles with all and weeps with none.
It was not thus in days more dear,
It never would have been, but thou
Hast fled, and left me lonely here;
Thou'rt nothing, all are nothing now.

In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!
The smile that sorrow fain would wear,
But mocks the woe that lurks beneath,
Like roses o'er a sepulchre.
Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though pleasure fires the maddening soul,
The heart-the heart is lonely still!

On many a lone and lovely night

It soothed to gaze upon the sky; For then I deem'd the heavenly light

Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye; And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, When sailing o'er the Ægean wave, "Now Thyrza gazes on that moon-" Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave!

When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed, And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, ""Tis comfort still," I faintly said,

"That Thyrza cannot know my pains:" Like freedom to the time-worn slave, A boon 'tis idle then to give, Relenting Nature vainly gave

My life when Thyrza ceased to live!

My Thyrza's pledge in better days,

When love and life alike were new, How different now thou meet'st my gaze! How tinged by time with sorrow's hue!

The heart that gave itself with thee

Is silent-ah, were mine as still! Though cold as even the dead can be, It feels, it sickens with the chill.

Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token!
Though painful, welcome to my breast!
Still, still, preserve that love unbroken,
Or break the heart to which thou'rt prest!
Time tempers love, but not removes,

More hallow'd when its hope is fled:
Oh! what are thousand living loves

To that which cannot quit the dead?

EUTHANASIA

WHEN time, or soon or late, shall bring The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, Oblivion may the languid wing

Wave gently o'er my dying bed!

No band of friends or heirs be there,
To weep or wish the coming blow;
No maiden, with dishevell'd hair,

To feel, or feign, decorous woe.

But silent let me sink to earth,

With no officious mourners near: I would not mar one hour of mirth, Nor startle friendship with a fear. Yet Love, if Love in such an hour Could nobly check its useless sighs, Might then exert its latest power

In her who lives and him who dies.

'Twere sweet, my Psyche, to the last Thy features still serene to see: Forgetful of its struggles past,

Even Pain itself should smile on thee.

But vain the wish-for Beauty still

Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath; And woman's tears, produced at will, Deceive in life, unman in death.

Then lonely be my latest hour,

Without regret, without a groan!
For thousands death hath ceased to lour,
And pain been transient or unknown.

"Ay, but to die, and go," alas!

Where all have gone, and all must go! To be the nothing that I was

Ere born to life and living woe! Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, Count o'er thy days from anguish free, And know, whatever thou hast been, 'Tis something better not to be.

TO A LADY WEEPING. WEEP, daughter of a royal line,

A sire's disgrace, a realm's decay; Ah, happy! if each tear of thine

Could wash a father's fault away!

Weep-for thy tears are virtue's tearsAuspicious to these suffering isles; And be each drop, in future years, Repaid thee by thy people's smiles! March, 1812.

INSCRIPTION

ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.

WHEN Some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below;
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him

OH! had my fate been join'd with thine,
As once this pledge appear'd a token,
These follies had not then been mine,
For then my peace had not been broken.
2.

To thee these early faults I owe,

To thee, the wise and old reproving : They know my sins, but do not know 'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. 3.

For once my soul, like thine, was pure,
And all its rising fires could smother;
And now thy vows no more endure,
Bestow'd by thee upon another.

4.

Perhaps his peace I could destroy,
And spoil the blisses that await him;
Yet let my rival smile in joy,

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him.

Go where I will, to me thou art the sameA loved regret which I would not resign. There yet are two things in my destiny, A world to roam through, and a home with thee

II.

The first were nothing-had I still the last
It were the haven of my happiness;

But other claims and other ties thou hast,
And mine is not the wish to make them less.
A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past
Recalling, as it lies beyond redress;

Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of

yore,

He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore.

III.

If my inheritance of storms hath been
In other elements, and on the rocks
Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen,

I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks,
The fault was mine; nor do I seek to screen
My errors with defensive paradox;

I have been cunning in mine overthrow, The careful pilot of my proper woe.

IV.

Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward.

My whole life was a contest since the day That gave me being, gave me that which

marr'd

The gift, a fate, or will, that walk'd astray;
And I at times have found the struggle hard,
And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay;
But now I fain would for a time survive,
If but to see what next can well arrive.
V.

Kingdoms and empires in my little day
I have outlived, and yet I am not old;
And when I look on this the petty spray
Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd
Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away:
Something I know not what-does still up-

hold

A spirit of slight patience ;-not in vain, Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain.

VI.

Perhaps the workings of defiance stir
Within me, or perhaps a cold despair,
Brought on when ills habitually recur,-
Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air,
(For even to this may change of soul refer,
And with light armour we may learn to bear,)
Have taught me a strange quiet, which was

not

The chief companion of a calmer lot.

* Admiral Byron was remarkable for never making a voyage without a tempest. He was known to the sailors by the facetious name of "Foul-weather Jack." "But though it were tempest-tost, Still his bark could not be lost." He returned safely from the wreck of the Wager, (in Anson's voyage,) and subsequently circumnavigated the world, many years after as commander of a similar expedition.