Remorse and Shame shall cling to thee, 2. Remember thee! Aye, doubt it not. Thou false to him, thou fiend to me!1 [First published, Conversations of Lord Byron, 1824.] TO TIME. TIME! on whose arbitrary wing The varying hours must flag or fly, For now I bear the weight alone. I would not one fond heart should share And pardon thee—since thou couldst spare 1. ["To Bd., Feb. 22, 1813. "Remember thee,' nay-doubt it not Thy Husband too may think' of thee! Thou false to him-thou fiend to me! "Remember thee'? Yes-yes-till Fate From a MS. (in the possession of Mr. Hallam To them be joy or rest-on me Retards, but never counts the hour.". That beam hath sunk-and now thou art Which all regret, yet all rehearse. Which we shall sleep too sound to heed. And I can smile to think how weak Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, When all the vengeance thou canst wreak [MS. M. First published, Childe Harold, 1814 (Seventh Edition).] i. not confessed thy power.-[MS. M. erased.] ii. still forgets the hour.—[MS. M. erased.] TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG. I. АH! Love was never yet without The pang, the agony, the doubt, Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh, While day and night roll darkling by. 2. Without one friend to hear my woe, 3. Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net Or, circled by his fatal fire, Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. 4. A bird of free and careless wing Was I, through many a smiling spring; But caught within the subtle snare, I burn, and feebly flutter there. 5. Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain, Can neither feel nor pity pain, The cold repulse, the look askance, The lightning of Love's angry glance. 6. In flattering dreams I deemed thee mine; Like melting wax, or withering flower, 7. My light of Life! ah, tell me why That pouting lip, and altered eye? 8. Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow: 9. My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain, And still thy heart, without partaking IO. Pour me the poison; fear not thou! Thou canst not murder more than now: I've lived to curse my natal day, And Love, that thus can lingering slay. II. My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, That Joy is harbinger of Woe. [First published, Childe Harold, 1814 (Seventh Edition).] THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU ART FICKLE. 1 I. THOU art not false, but thou art fickle, Are doubly bitter from that thought: 'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest, 2. The wholly false the heart despises, But she who not a thought disguises," Whose love is as sincere as sweet,-- 3. To dream of joy and wake to sorrow 4. What must they feel whom no false vision I. ["I send you some lines which may as well be called 'A Song' as anything else, and will do for your new edition."-B.-(MS. M.)] |