Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/252

218 Bears the cloud onwards: in that Tale I find

The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears,

Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind,

O'er which all heavily the journeying years

Plod the last sands of life,—where not a flower appears.

IV.

Since my young days of passion—joy, or pain—

Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string—

And both may jar: it may be, that in vain

I would essay as I have sung to sing:

Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling;

So that it wean me from the weary dream

Of selfish grief or gladness—so it fling

Forgetfulness around me—it shall seem

To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme.

V.

He, who grown agèd in this world of woe,

In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life,

So that no wonder waits him—nor below

Can Love or Sorrow, Fame, Ambition, Strife,

Cut to his heart again with the keen knife

Of silent, sharp endurance—he can tell