Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved’s bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
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I rode one evening with Count Maddalo
Of Adria towards Venice: a bare strandOf hillocks, heap’d from ever-shifting sand,Matted with thistles and amphibious weeds,Such as from earth’s embrace the salt ooze breeds,Is this; an uninhabited sea-side,Which the lone fisher, when his nets are dried,Abandons; and no other object breaksThe waste, but one dwarf tree and some few stakesBroken and unrepair’d, and the…
I.
Sits near an open grave and calls them over,A Youth with hoary hair and haggard eye–They are the names of kindred, friend and lover,Which he so feebly calls—they all are gone–Fond wretch, all dead! those vacant names alone,This most familiar scene, my pain–These tombs—alone remain.II.Misery, my sweetest friend—oh, weep no more!Thou wilt not be consoled—I…
Thy dewy looks sink in my breast;
Thou hast disturbed the only restThat was the portion of despair!Subdued to Duty’s hard control,I could have borne my wayward lot:The chains that bind this ruined soulHad cankered then—but crushed it not.
He wanders, like a day-appearing dream,
Through desert woods and tracts, which seemLike ocean, homeless, boundless, unconfined.
Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are years,
Are brackish with the salt of human tears!Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flowClaspest the limits of mortality,And sick of prey, yet howling on for more,Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable shore;Treacherous in calm, and terrible in storm,Who shall put forth on thee,Unfathomable Sea?
O mighty mind, in whose deep stream this age
Why dost thou curb not thine own sacred rage?