Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/464

422 CXXVI.

Our life is a false nature—'tis not in

The harmony of things,—this hard decree,

This uneradicable taint of Sin,

This boundless Upas, this all-blasting tree,

Whose root is Earth—whose leaves and branches be

The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew—

Disease, death, bondage—all the woes we see,

And worse, the woes we see not—which throb through

The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new.

CXXVII.

Yet let us ponder boldly—'tis a base

Abandonment of reason to resign