Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/299

CANTO II.] "Thou lov'st another then?—but what to me

Is this—'tis nothing—nothing e'er can be:

But yet—thou lov'st—and—Oh! I envy those

Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose,

Who never feel the void—the wandering thought

That sighs o'er visions—such as mine hath wrought."

"Lady—methought thy love was his, for whom

This arm redeemed thee from a fiery tomb."

"My love stern Seyd's! Oh—No—No—not my love—

Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove

To meet his passion—but it would not be.

I felt—I feel—Love dwells with—with the free.

I am a slave, a favoured slave at best,

To share his splendour, and seem very blest!

Oft must my soul the question undergo,

Of—'Dost thou love?' and burn to answer, 'No!'

Oh! hard it is that fondness to sustain,

And struggle not to feel averse in vain;

But harder still the heart's recoil to bear,

And hide from one—perhaps another there.

He takes the hand I give not—nor withhold—

Its pulse nor checked—nor quickened—calmly cold:

And when resigned, it drops a lifeless weight

From one I never loved enough to hate.

No warmth these lips return by his imprest,

And chilled Remembrance shudders o'er the rest.

Yes—had I ever proved that Passion's zeal,

The change to hatred were at least to feel:

But still—he goes unmourned—returns unsought—

And oft when present—absent from my thought.

Or when Reflection comes—and come it must—

I fear that henceforth 'twill but bring disgust;