VIII.

Here are the Alpine landscapes which create
A fund for contemplation ;—to admire
Is a brief feeling of a trivial date;

But something worthier do such scenes inspire :
Here to be lonely is not desolate,

For much I view which I could most desire,
And, above all, a lake I can behold
Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old.

IX.

grow

Oh that thou wert but with me!—but I The fool of my own wishes, and forget The solitude which I have vaunted so Has lost its praise in this but one regret; There may be others which I less may show ;I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet I feel an ebb in my philosophy, And the tide rising in my alter'd eye.

X.

I did remind thee of our own dear Lake, (1)
By the old Hall which may be mine no more.
Leman's is fair; but think not I forsake
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore:

(1) The Lake of Newstead Abbey. [Thus described in Don Juan: "Before the mansion lay a lucid lake,

Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed
By a river, which its soften'd way did take
In currents through the calmer water spread
Around the wild fowl nestled in the brake

And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed;
The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood
With their green faces fix'd upon the flood."— E.]

Sad havoc Time must with my memory make

Ere that or thou can fade these eyes

before;

Though, like all things which I have loved, they are Resign'd for ever, or divided far.

XI.

The world is all before me; I but ask

Of Nature that with which she will comply

It is but in her summer's sun to bask,

To mingle with the quiet of her sky,
To see her gentle face without a mask,
And never gaze on it with apathy.
She was my early friend, and now shall be
My sister-till I look again on thee.

XII.

I can reduce all feelings but this one;
And that I would not ;- -for at length I see
Such scenes as those wherein my life begun.
The earliest-even the only paths for me-
Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun,
I had been better than I now can be;

The passions which have torn me would have slept; I had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept.

XIII.

With false Ambition what had I to do?

Little with Love, and least of all with Fame; And yet they came unsought, and with me grew, And made me all which they can make―a name. Yet this was not the end I did pursue;

Surely I once beheld a nobler aim.

But all is over-I am one the more

To baffled millions which have gone before.

XIV.

And for the future, this world's future may
From me demand but little of my care;
I have outlived myself by many a day;
Having survived so many things that were;
My years have been no slumber, but the
Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share
Of life which might have fill'd a century,
Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by.

XV.

prey

And for the remnant which may be to come
I am content; and for the past I feel

Not thankless, for within the crowded sum
Of struggles, happiness at times would steal,
And for the present, I would not benumb
My feelings farther. Nor shall I conceal

That with all this I still can look around And worship Nature with a thought profound..

XVI.

For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart
I know myself secure, as thou in mine;

We were and are

-I am, even as thou art -
Beings who ne'er each other can resign;
It is the same, together or apart,

From life's commencement to its slow decline We are entwined—let death come slow or fast, The tie which bound the first endures the last!

LINES

ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL. (1)

AND thou wert sad-yet I was not with thee; And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near; Methought that joy and health alone could be Where I was not- -and pain and sorrow here! And is it thus?—it is as I foretold,

--

And shall be more so; for the mind recoils
Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold,
While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils.
It is not in the storm nor in the strife

We feel benumb'd, and wish to be no more,
But in the after-silence on the shore,
When all is lost, except a little life.

I am too well avenged!-but 'twas my right; Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent To be the Nemesis who should requite

Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument.

(1) [These verses, of which the opening lines are given in Moore's Notices, were written immediately after the failure of the negotiation already alluded to (antè, page. 181.), but were not intended for the public eye: as, however, they have recently found their way into circulation, we must include them, though with reluctance, in this collection.-E.]

Mercy is for the merciful!—if thou

Hast been of such, 'twill be accorded now.

Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep!-
Yes! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel
A hollow agony which will not heal,

For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep;
Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap
The bitter harvest in a woe as real!

I have had many foes, but none like thee;
For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend,
And be avenged, or turn them into friend;
But thou in safe implacability

Hadst nought to dread-in thy own weakness shielded,
And in my love, which hath but too much yielded,
And spared, for thy sake, some I should not spare-
And thus upon the world-trust in thy truth-
And the wild fame of my ungovern'd youth-

On things that were not, and on things that are-
Even upon such a basis hast thou built
A monument, whose cement hath been guilt!
The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord,

And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword,
Fame, peace, and hope—and all the better life

Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart,
Might still have risen from out the grave of strife,
And found a nobler duty than to part.
But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice,

Trafficking with them in a purpose cold,
For present anger, and for future gold-
And buying other's grief at any price.
And thus once enter'd into crooked ways,
The early truth, which was thy proper praise,