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That there was something in her air,
Which would not doom me to despair;
And on the thought my words broke forth,

AH incoherent as they were—
Their eloquence was little worth.
But yet she listened—'tis enough—

Who listens once will listen twice;

Her heart, be sure, is not of ice,
And one refusal no rebuff.
I loved, and was beloved again.

Byron.

THE DEATH OF HAIDEE.

The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore,
And he himself o'ermastered and cut down;

His blood was running on the very floor
Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own;

Thus much she viewed an instant and no more—
Her struggle ceased with one convulsive groan;

On her sire's arm, which until now scarce held

Her writhing, fell she like a cedar felled.

VOL. II. s

A vein had burst—and her sweet lips' pure dyes
Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er;

And her head drooped as when the lily lies

O'ercharged with rain; the summoned handmaids bore

Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes:
Of herbs and cordials they produced their store,

But she defied all means they could employ,

Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy!

Days lay she in that state, unchanged, though chill,
With nothing livid, still her lips were red;

She had no pulse, but death seemed absent still;
No hideous sign proclaimed her surely dead;

Corruption came not, in each mind to kill
All hope: to look upon her sweet face bred

New thoughts of life, for it seemed full of soul,

She had so much, earth could not claim the whole.

The ruling passion, such as marble shows
When exquisitely chiselled, still lay there,

But fixed as marble's unchanged aspect throws
O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair;

O'er the Laocoon's all-eternal throes,
And ever-dying Gladiator's air,

Their energy like life forms all their fame,

Yet looks not life, for they are still the same.

She woke at length—but not as sleepers wake—
Rather the dead, for life seemed something new,

A strange sensation which she must partake
Perforce, since whatsoever met her view

Struck not on memory, though a heavy ache
Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat, still true,

Brought back the sense of pain without the cause,

For, for awhile, the Furies made a pause.

She looked on many a face with vacant eye,
On many a token without knowing what;

She saw them watch her, without asking why,
And recked not who around her pillow sat;

Not speechless, though she spoke not: a sigh

Relieved her thoughts; dull silence and quick chat

Were tried in vain by those who served—she gave

No sign, save breath, of having left the grave.

Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not;

Her father watched-—she turned her eyes away— She recognised no being, and no spot,

However dear or cherished in their day:
They changed from room to room, but all forgot,

Gentle, but without memory, she lay;
And yet those eyes, which they would fain be weaning
Back to old thoughts, seemed full of fearful meaning.

At last a slave bethought her of a harp;

The harper came, and tuned bis instrument;

At first the notes—irregular and sharp—
On him her flashing eyes a moment bent;

Then to the wall she turned, as if to warp,

Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent.

And he begun a long low island song,

Of ancient days—ere tyranny grew strong.

Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall
In time to his old tune; he changed the theme,

And sung of love: the fierce name struck through all
Her recollection; on her flashed the dream

Of what she was, and is, if ye could call
To be so being; in a gushing stream

The tears rushed forth from her unclouded brain,

Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain.

Short solace, vain relief!—thought came too quick,
And whirled her brain to madness; she arose

As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick,
And flew at all she met, as on her foes;

But no one ever heard her speak or shriek,

Although her paroxysm drew towards its close:

Hers was a phrenzy which disdained to rave,

Even when they smote her, in the hope to save.

Yet she betrayed at times a gleam of sense;

Nothing could make her meet her father's face, Though on all other things with looks intense

She gazed, but none she ever could retrace; Food she refused, and raiment; no pretence

Availed for either; neither change of place,
Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her
Senses to sleep—the power seemed gone for ever. v;.

Twelve days and nights she withered thus: at last,
Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show

A parting pang, the spirit from her past;

And they who watched her nearest could not know

The very instant, till the change that cast
Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow,

Glazed o'er her eyes—the beautiful, the black—

Oh I to possess such lustre—and then lack!

Byron.

TO A TUFT OF EARLY VIOLETS.

Sweet flowers! that, from your humble beds

Thus prematurely dare to rise,
And trust your unprotected heads

To cold Aquarius' watery skies;

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