martes, 9 de julio de 2013

Poetry: Lord Byron - Domestic Pieces - Part 2 - Lines - Well. Thou Art Happy - Links

   On Hearing that Lady Byron was Ill.

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 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.
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,
Did not still walk beside thee -- but at times,
And with a breast unknowing its own crimes,
Deceit, averments incompatible,
Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell
  In Janus-spirits -- the significant eye
Which learns to lie with silence -- the pretext
Of Prudence, with advantages annex'd --
The acquiescence in all things which tend,
No matter how, to the desired end --
  All found a place in thy philosophy.
The means were worthy, and the end is won --
I would not do by thee as thou hast done!

                                           /September, 1816./


Well! thou art happy, and I feel
  That I should thus be happy too;
For still my heart regards thy weal
  Warmly, as it was wont to do.

Thy husband's blest -- and 'twill impart
  Some pangs to view his happier lot:
But let them pass -- Oh! how my heart
  Would hate him if he loved thee not!

When late I saw thy favorite child,
  I thought my jealous heart would break;
But when the unconscious infant smiled,
  I kiss'd it for its mother's sake.

I kiss'd it, -- and repress'd my sighs,
  Its father in its face to see;
But then it had its mother's eyes,
  And they were all to love and me.

Mary, adieu! I must away:
  While thou art blest I'll not repine;
But near thee I can never stay;
  My heart would soon again be thine.

I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride
  Had quench'd at length my boyish flame;
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,
  My heart in all -- save hope -- the same.

Yet was I calm: I knew the time
  My breast would thrill before thy look:
But now to tremble were a crime --
  We met, -- and not a nerve was shook.

I saw thee gaze upon my face,
  Yet meet with no confusion there;
One only feeling couldst thou trace --
  The sullen calmness of despair.

Away! away! my early dream
  Remembrance never must awake:
Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream?
  My foolish heart, be still or break.

                                       /November 2, 18??./
                                      [Illegible; probably 1818.]

Poetry: Lord Byron - Domestic Pieces - Part 2 - Lines - Well. Thou Art Happy - Links


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