Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/429

Rh There rose no day, there rolled no hour

Of pleasure unembittered;

And not a trapping decked my Power

That galled not while it glittered.

III.

The serpent of the field, by art

And spells, is won from harming;

But that which coils around the heart,

Oh! who hath power of charming?

It will not list to Wisdom's lore,

Nor Music's voice can lure it;

But there it stings for evermore

The soul that must endure it. Seaham, 1815.

WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFERING CLAY.

I.

coldness wraps this suffering clay,

Ah! whither strays the immortal mind?

It cannot die, it cannot stay,

But leaves its darkened dust behind.

Then, unembodied, doth it trace

By steps each planet's heavenly way?