Lord Byron (1788–1824). Poetry of Byron. 1881.
I. Personal, Lyric, and ElegiacWell! thou art happy
W
That I should thus be happy too;
For still my heart regards thy weal
Warmly, as it was wont to do.
Some pangs to view his happier lot: But let them pass—Oh! how my heart Would hate him, if he loved thee not! I thought my jealous heart would break; But when the unconscious infant smiled, I kiss’d it for its mother’s sake. Its father in its face to see; But then it had its mother’s eyes, And they were all to love and me. While thou art blest I’ll not repine; But near thee I can never stay; My heart would soon again be thine. Had quench’d at length my boyish flame: Nor knew, till seated by thy side, My heart in all,—save hope,—the same. My breast would thrill before thy look; But now to tremble were a crime— We met,—and not a nerve was shook. Yet met with no confusion there: One only feeling could’st thou trace; The sullen calmness of despair. Remembrance never must awake; Oh! where is Lethe’s fabled stream! My foolish heart be still, or break.