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I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon
There flowers or weeds at will may grow,
So I behold them not:
It is enough for me to prove
That what I loved, and long must love,
To me there needs no stone to tell,
Yet did I love thee to the last
Who didst not change through all the past,
The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor falsehood disavow:
And, what were worse, thou canst not see Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.
The better days of life were ours;
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,
The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;
Nor need I to repine
That all those charms have pass'd away;
I might have watch'd through long decay.
The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
I know not if I could have borne
The night that follow'd such a morn
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,
As stars that shoot along the sky Shine brightest as they fall from high.
As once I wept, if I could weep,
And show that love, however vain,
Yet how much less it were to gain,
And more thy buried love endears
["IF SOMETIMES," &c.]
If sometimes in the haunts of men
The semblance of thy gentle shade:
Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile
That then I seem not to repine;
If not the goblet pass unquaff'd,
From all her troubled visions free,
For wert thou vanish'd from my mind,
For well I know, that such had been
A blessing never meant for me;
March 14. 1812.
ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS
ILL-FATED Heart! and can it be
That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain?
Yet precious seems each shatter'd part,
March 16. 1812.
LINES TO A LADY WEEPING. (2)
WEEP, daughter of a royal line,
Could wash a father's fault away!
(1) [We know not whether the reader should understand the cornelian heart of these lines to be the same with that of which some notices are given in Vol. VII. p. 99. —E.]
(2) [This impromptu owed its birth to an on dit, that the late Princess Charlotte of Wales burst into tears on hearing that the Whigs had found It impossible to put together a cabinet, at the period of Mr. Perceval's death. They were appended to the first edition of the " Corsair," and excited a sensation, as it is called, marvellously disproportionate to their length, or, we may add, their merit. The ministerial prints raved for two months on end, in the most foul-mouthed vituperation of the poet, and all that belonged to him- the Morning Post even announced a motion in the House of Lords-" and all this," Lord Byron writes to Mr. Moore," as Bedreddin in the Arabian Nights remarks, for making a cream tart with pepper: how odd, that eight lines should have given birth, I really think, to eight thousand!"— E.]