Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/270

238 Though fairest captives daily met his eye,

He shunned, nor sought, but coldly passed them by;

Though many a beauty drooped in prisoned bower,

None ever soothed his most unguarded hour.

Yes—it was Love—if thoughts of tenderness,

Tried in temptation, strengthened by distress,

Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime,

And yet—Oh more than all!—untired by Time;

Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile,

Could render sullen were She near to smile,

Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent

On her one murmur of his discontent;

Which still would meet with joy, with calmness part,

Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart;

Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove—

If there be Love in mortals—this was Love!

He was a villain—aye, reproaches shower

On him—but not the Passion, nor its power,

Which only proved—all other virtues gone—

Not Guilt itself could quench this loveliest one!

He paused a moment—till his hastening men

Passed the first winding downward to the glen.

"Strange tidings!—many a peril have I passed,

Nor know I why this next appears the last!

Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear,

Nor shall my followers find me falter here.

'Tis rash to meet—but surer death to wait

Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate;

And, if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile,

We'll furnish mourners for our funeral pile.