Am I not wan like thee? At the grave's call
I haste, invited to thy wedding-ball,

To meet the ghastly paramour, for whom
Thou hast deserted me,-and made the tomb
Thy bridal bed. But I beside thy feet
Will lie, and watch ye from my winding-sheet
Thus-wide awake though dead-Yet stay, O stay!
Go not so soon-I know not what I say-
Hear but my reasons-I am mad, I fear,
My fancy is o'erwrought-thou art not here.

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

"Nay, was it I who wooed 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, though 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! never heard
My voice! and, more than all, had ne'er endured
The deep pollution of my loathed embrace!
That your eyes ne'er had 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 seared'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!

A cruel punishment for one most cruel,

"It were

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 fantasy,
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 show
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, though 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?

Alas, love!

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.-Then we lingered 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 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

CC

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 recal
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 firelight
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; the name
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 my 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."—

How did it end?"

"Why, her heart must have been tough;

"And was not this enough?

They met, they parted."

"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.