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, act, 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 despair!"
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 impressed so much :
The man who were not must have lacked a touch Of human nature.
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 daylight 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 vowed deeply (which he dreamed not of), For whose sake he, it seemed, had fixed a blot Of falsehood in his mind, which flourished 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 formed 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, Unseen, uninterrupted. Books are there, Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair Which were twin-born with poetry, and all We seek in towns, with little to recall Regret for the green country. I might sit In Maddalo's great palace, and his wit And subtle talk would cheer the winter night, And make me know myself: and the fire-light Would flash upon our faces, till the day Might dawn, and make me wonder at my stay. But I had friends in London too. The chief Attraction here was that I sought relief From the deep tenderness that maniac wrought Within me. 'Twas perhaps an idle thought,
But I imagined that-if day by day
I watched him, and seldom went away,
And studied all the beatings of his heart' With zeal (as men study some stubborn art For their own good), and could by patience find An entrance to the caverns of his mind- I might reclaim him from his dark estate. In friendships I had been most fortunate; Yet never saw I one whom I would call More willingly my friend.-And this was all Accomplished not. Such dreams of baseless good Oft come and go, in crowds or solitude,
And leave no trace: but what I now designed Made, for long years, impression on my mind.- The following morning, urged by my affairs, I left bright Venice.
After many years
And many changes, I returned.
Of Venice, and its aspect, was the same. But Maddalo was travelling, far away, Among the mountains of Armenia :
His dog was dead: his child had now become A woman, such as it has been my doom To meet with few; a wonder of this earth, Where there is little of transcendent worth,— Like one of Shakspeare's women. Kindly she, And with a manner beyond courtesy,
Received her father's friend; and, when I asked Of the lorn maniac, she her memory tasked, And told, as she had heard, the mournful tale That the poor sufferer's health began to fail Two years from my departure; but that then The lady who had left him came again.
"Her mien had been imperious, but she now Looked meek; perhaps remorse had brought her low. Her coming made him better; and they stayed Together at iny father's-(for I played,
As I remember, with the lady's shawl; I might be six years old).-But, after all, She left him."
"Why, her heart must have been tough!
"And was not this enough?
"Child, is there no more?"
"Something within that interval which bore
The stamp of why they parted, how they met.- Yet, if thine aged eyes disdain to wet
Those wrinkled cheeks with youth's remembered tears, Ask me no more; but let the silent years
Be closed and cered over their memory,
As yon mute marble where their corpses lie."
I urged and questioned still. She told me how All happened—But the cold world shall not know.
PROMETHEUS UNBOUND:
A LYRICAL DRAMA, IN FOUR ACTS.
SCENE-A Ravine of Icy Rocks in the Indian Caucasus. PROME- THEUS is discovered bound to the Precipice. PANTHEA and IONE are seated at his feet. Time, Night. During the Scene, Morning slowly breaks.
Prometheus. Monarch of Gods and Demons, and all Spirits- But One-who throng those bright and rolling worlds Which thou and I alone of living things
Behold with sleepless eyes! regard this earth
Made multitudinous with thy slaves, whom thou Requitest for knee-worship, prayer, and praise, And toil, and hecatombs of broken hearts,
With fear and self-contempt and barren hope: Whilst me who am thy foe, eyeless in hate Hast thou made reign and triumph, to thy scorn, O'er mine own misery and thy vain revenge. Three thousand years of sleep-unsheltered hours, And moments aye divided by keen pangs Till they seemed years, torture and solitude, Scorn and despair-these are mine empire :- More glorious far than that which thou surveyest From thine unenvied throne, O Mighty God! Almighty, had I deigned to share the shame Of thine ill tyranny, and hung not here Nailed to this wall of eagle-baffling mountain, Black, wintry, dead, unmeasured; without herb, Insect, or beast, or shape or sound of life. Ah me! alas! pain, pain, ever, for ever!
No change, no pause, no hope! Yet I endure. I ask the Earth, have not the mountains felt? I ask yon Heaven, the all-beholding Sun, Has it not seen? The Sea, in storm or calm, Heaven's ever-changing shadow spread below, Have its deaf waves not heard my agony? Ah me! alas! pain, pain, ever, for ever!
The crawling glaciers pierce me with the spears Of their moon-freezing crystals; the bright chains Eat with their burning cold into my bones; Heaven's winged hound, polluting from thy lips His beak in poison not his own, tears up
My heart; and shapeless sights come wandering by, The ghastly people of the realm of dream, Mocking me: and the Earthquake-fiends are chargei To wrench the rivets from my quivering wounds When the rocks split and close again behind : While from their loud abysses howling throng The Genii of the Storm, urging the rage Of whirlwind, and afflict me with keen hail. And yet to me welcome is day and night; Whether one breaks the hoar-frost of the morn, Or, starry, dim, and slow, the other climbs The leaden-coloured east; for then they lead The wingless crawling Hours, one among whom -As some dark priest hales the reluctant victim- Shall drag thee, cruel King, to kiss the blood From these pale feet, which then might trample thee If they disdained not such a prostrate slave. Disdain! Ah no! I pity thee. What ruin
Will hunt thee undefended through the wide heaven! How will thy soul, cloven to its depth with terror, Gape like a hell within! I speak in grief,
Not exultation; for I hate no more,
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