Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/280

240 7.

And thou, my Friend! whose gentle love

Yet thrills my bosom's chords,

How much thy friendship was above

Description's power of words!

Still near my breast thy gift I wear

Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear,

Of Love the pure, the sacred gem:

Our souls were equal, and our lot

In that dear moment quite forgot;

Let Pride alone condemn!

8.

All, all is dark and cheerless now!

No smile of Love's deceit

Can warm my veins with wonted glow,

Can bid Life's pulses beat:

Not e'en the hope of future fame

Can wake my faint, exhausted frame,

Or crown with fancied wreaths my head.

Mine is a short inglorious race,—

To humble in the dust my face,

And mingle with the dead.