Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/110

76 That bids me loathe my present state,

And fly from all I prized the most:

4.

It is that weariness which springs

From all I meet, or hear, or see:

To me no pleasure Beauty brings;

Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.

5.

It is that settled, ceaseless gloom

The fabled Hebrew Wanderer bore;

That will not look beyond the tomb,

But cannot hope for rest before.

6.

What Exile from himself can flee?

To zones though more and more remote,

Still, still pursues, where'er I be,

The blight of Life—the Demon Thought.

7.

Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,

And taste of all that I forsake;