Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/274

242 Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn,

My very love to thee is hate to them,

So closely mingling here, that disentwined,

I cease to love thee when I love Mankind:

Yet dread not this—the proof of all the past

Assures the future that my love will last;

But—Oh, Medora! nerve thy gentler heart;

This hour again—but not for long—we part."

"This hour we part!—my heart foreboded this:

Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss.

This hour—it cannot be—this hour away!

Yon bark hath hardly anchored in the bay:

Her consort still is absent, and her crew

Have need of rest before they toil anew;

My Love! thou mock'st my weakness; and wouldst steel

My breast before the time when it must feel;

But trifle now no more with my distress,

Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness.

Be silent, Conrad!—dearest! come and share

The feast these hands delighted to prepare;

Light toil! to cull and dress thy frugal fare!

See, I have plucked the fruit that promised best,

And where not sure, perplexed, but pleased, I guessed

At such as seemed the fairest; thrice the hill

My steps have wound to try the coolest rill;

Yes! thy Sherbet to-night will sweetly flow,

See how it sparkles in its vase of snow!

The grape's gay juice thy bosom never cheers;

Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears:

Think not I mean to chide—for I rejoice

What others deem a penance is thy choice.

But come, the board is spread; our silver lamp

Is trimmed, and heeds not the Sirocco's damp: