Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/312

276 But where of ye, O Tempests! is the goal?

Are ye like those within the human breast?

Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest?

XCVII.

Could I embody and unbosom now

That which is most within me,—could I wreak

My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw

Soul—heart—mind—passions—feelings—strong or weak—

All that I would have sought, and all I seek,

Bear, know, feel—and yet breathe—into one word,

And that one word were Lightning, I would speak;

But as it is, I live and die unheard,

With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword.

XCVIII.

The Morn is up again, the dewy Morn,

With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom—

Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,

And living as if earth contained no tomb,—

And glowing into day: we may resume

The march of our existence: and thus I,

Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room

And food for meditation, nor pass by

Much, that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly.