Lord Byron (1788–1824). Poetry of Byron. 1881.
I. Personal, Lyric, and Elegiac“One Struggle more”
“O
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?
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. 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! It sooth’d 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! 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! 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 e’en the dead can be, It feels, it sickens with the chill. Though painful, welcome to my breast! Still, still, preserve that love unbroken, Or break the heart to which thou’rt press’d! 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?