LXXXII.

Oh! many a time, and oft, had Harold loved,
Or dream'd he loved, since Rapture is a dream;
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved,
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream;
And lately had he learn'd with truth to deem
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings:

How fair, how

young,

how soft soe'er he seem,

Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs

Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. (16)

LXXXIII.

Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind,

Though now it moved him as it moves the wise;

Not that Philosophy on such a mind

E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes:
But Passion raves herself to rest, or flies;
And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb,
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise:
Pleasure's pall'd victim! life-abhorring gloom

Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom.

LXXXIV.

Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng;

But view'd them not with misanthropic hate:
Fain would he now have join'd the dance, the song;
But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate?
Nought that he saw his sadness could abate:

Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway,
And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate,

Pour'd forth this unpremeditated lay,

To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day.

TO INEZ.

1.

NAY, smile not at my sullen brow;

Alas! I cannot smile again:

Yet heaven avert that ever thou

Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain.

2.

And dost thou ask, what secret woe

I bear, corroding joy and youth?
And wilt thou vainly seek to know
A pang, ev'n thou must fail to soothe ?

3.

It is not love, it is not hate,

Nor low Ambition's honours lost,

That bids me loathe my present state,
And fly from all I prized the most:

4.

It is that weariness which springs

From all I meet, or hear, or see:

To me no pleasure Beauty brings;

VOL. I.

Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.

F

5.

It is that settled, ceaseless gloom

The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore;

That will not look beyond the tomb,
But cannot hope for rest before.

6.

What Exile from himself can flee?

To Zones, though more and more remote,

Still, still pursues, where-e'er I be,

The blight of life-the demon Thought.

7.

Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,

And taste of all that I forsake;

Oh! may they still of transport dream,

And ne'er, at least like me, awake!

8.

Through many a clime 'tis mine to go,

With many a retrospection curst;

And all my solace is to know,

Whate'er betides, I've known the worst.

9.

What is that worst? Nay do not ask

In pity from the search forbear:

Smile on-nor venture to unmask

Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there.