Pale art thou, 'tis most true-but thou art goneThy work is finished; I am left alone.

"Nay, was it I who woced thee to this breast,
Which like a serpent thou envenomest
As in repayment of the warmth it lent?

Didst thou not seek me for thine own content?
Did not thy love awaken mine? I thought
That thou wert she who said You kiss me not
Ever; I fear you do not love me now.'

In truth I loved even to my overthrow

Her, who would fain forget these words, but they Cling to her mind, and cannot pass away.

*

*

*

*

*

"You say that I am proud; that when I speak, My lip is tortured with the wrongs, which break The spirit it expresses.-Never one

Humbled himself before, as I have done!

Even the instinctive worm on which we tread

Turns, tho' it wound not-then, with prostrate head,
Sinks in the dust, and writhes like me-and dies:
-No:-
:-wears a living death of agonies!
As the slow shadows of the pointed grass
Mark the eternal periods, its pangs pass,
Slow, ever-moving, making moments be
As mine seem, each an immortality!

"That
you had never seen me i never heard
My voice! and, more than all, had ne'er endured
The deep pollution of my loathed embrace!
That your eyes ne'er bad lied love in my face!
That, like some maniac monk, I had torn out
The nerves of manhood by their bleeding root

With mine own quivering fingers! so that ne'er
Our hearts had for a moment mingled there,
To disunite in horror! These were not

With thee like some suppressed and hideous thought,
Which flits athwart our musings, but can find
No rest within a pure and gentle mind-

Thou sealed'st them with many a bare broad word,
And seard'st my memory o'er them,-for I heard
And can forget not-they were ministered,
One after one, those curses. Mix them up
Like self-destroying poisons in one cup;

And they will make one blessing, which thou ne'er

Didst imprecate for on me

-death!

"It were

A cruel punishment for one most cruel,

If such can love, to make that love the fuel
Of the mind's hell-hate, scorn, remorse, despair:
But me, whose heart a stranger's tear might wear,
As water-drops the sandy fountain stone;

Who loved and pitied all things, and could moan
For woes which others hear not, and could see
The absent with the glass of phantasy,
And near the poor and trampled sit and weep,
Following the captive to his dungeon deep;
Me, who am as a nerve o'er which do creep
The else-unfelt oppressions of this earth,
And was to thee the flame upon thy hearth,
When all beside was cold:-that thou on me
Shouldst rain these plagues of blistering agony-
Such curses are from lips once eloquent

With love's too partial praise! Let none relent
Who intend deeds too dreadful for a name

Henceforth, if an example for the same

They seek:-for thou on me lookedst so and so,
And didst speak thus and thus. I live to shew
How much men bear, and die not.

*

*

"Thou wilt tell,

With the grimace of hate, how horrible

It was to meet my love when thine grew less;
Thou wilt admire how I could e'er address

Such features to love's work....This taunt, tho' true,
(For indeed nature nor in form nor hue
Bestowed on me her choicest workmanship)
Shall not be thy defence: for since thy life

Met mine first, years long past,-since thine eye kindled
With soft fire under mine,-I have not dwindled,

Nor changed in mind, or body, or in aught
But as love changes what it loveth not
After long years and many trials.

Are words! I thought never to speak again,
Not even in secret, not to my own heart-
But from my lips the unwilling accents start,,
And from my pen the words flow as I write,
Dazzling my eyes with scalding tears-my sight
Is dim to see that charactered in vain,

On this unfeeling leaf, which burns the brain
And eats into it, blotting all things fair,

And wise and good, which time had written there.
Those who inflict must suffer, for 'they see
The work of their own hearts, and that must be
Our chastisement or recompense.-O child!
I would that thine were like to be more mild
For both our wretched sakes,-for thine the most,
Who feel'st already all that thou hast lost,

Without the power to wish it thine again.
And, as slow years pass, a funereal train,
Each with the ghost of some lost hope or friend
Following it like its shadow, wilt thou bend
No thought on my dead memory?

Fear me not: against thee I'd not move

A finger in despite. Do I not live

That thou mayst have less bitter cause to grieve?
I give thee tears for scorn, and love for hate;
And, that thy lot may be less desolate
Than his on whom thou tramplest, I refrain
From that sweet sleep which medicines all pain.
Then when thou speakest of me-never say,
'He could forgive not.'-Here I cast away
All human passions, all revenge, all pride;
I think, speak, acts no ill; I do but hide
Under these words, like embers, every spark
Of that which has consumed me. Quick and dark
The grave is yawning:-
-as its roof shall cover
My limbs with dust and worms, under and over,
So let oblivion hide this grief-The air
Closes upon my accents, as despair

Upon my heart-let death upon my care!"

He ceased, and overcome, leant back awhile;

Then rising, with a melancholy smile,
Went to a sofa, and lay down, and slept
A heavy sleep, and in his dreams he wept,
And muttered some familiar name, and we
Wept without shame in his society.

I think I never was impress'd so much;

The man, who was not, must have lack'd a touch Of human nature.-Then we linger'd not,

Although our argument was quite forgot ;
But, calling the attendants, went to dine'
At Maddalo's:-yet neither cheer nor wine
Could give us spirits, for we talked of him,
And nothing else, till day light made stars dim.
And we agreed it was some dreadful ill
Wrought on him boldly, yet unspeakable,
By a dear friend; some deadly change in love
Of one vow'd deeply which he dreamed not of;
For whose sake, he it seemed, had fixed a blot
Of falsehood in his mind, which flourish'd not
But in the light of all-beholding truth;

And having stamped this canker on his youth,
She had abandoned him:-and how much more
Might be his woe, we guessed not :-he had store
Of friends and fortune once, as we could guess
From his nice habits and his gentleness:
These now were lost-it were a grief indeed
If he had changed one unsustaining reed
For all that such a man might else adorn.
The colours of his mind seemed yet unworn;
For the wild language of his grief was high-→
Such as in measure were called poetry.
And I remember one remark, which then
Maddalo made: he said-" Most wretched men
Are cradled into poetry by wrong:

They learn in suffering what they teach in song."

If I had been an unconnected man,

I, from this moment, should have form'd some plan
Never to leave sweet Venice for to me

It was delight to ride by the lone sea :
And then the town is silent- -one may write
Or read in gondolas, by day or night,
Having the little brazen lamp alight,