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'Tis silent all! - but on my ear
The well remember'd echoes thrill;
A voice that now might well be still:
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.
December 6. 1811.(1)
["ONE STRUGGLE MORE," &c.]
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.
(1) ["I wrote this a day or two ago, on hearing a song of former days.". B. Letters, Dec. 8. 1811.]
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;
In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!
Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Though pleasure fires the maddening soul,
On many a lone and lovely night
Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye:
When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed,
“ That Thyrza cannot know my pains:”
My life, when Thyrza ceased to live!
My Thyrza's pledge in better days,
Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token!
Or break the heart to which thou 'rt press'd!
WHEN Time, or soon or late, shall bring
No band of friends or heirs be there,
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
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,
E'en 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,
For thousands Death hath ceased to lower,
“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,
["AND THOU ART DEAD," &c.]
"Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse! "
AND thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;
And form so soft, and charms so rare,
Though Earth received them in her bed,
There is an eye which could not brook