Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/577

Rh Still thine own its life retaineth—

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;

And the undying thought which paineth

Is—that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow

Than the wail above the dead;

Both shall live—but every morrow

Wake us from a widowed bed.

And when thou would'st solace gather—

When our child's first accents flow—

Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!"

Though his care she must forego?

When her little hands shall press thee—

When her lip to thine is pressed—

Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee—

Think of him thy love had blessed!

Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more may'st see,

Then thy heart will softly tremble

With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest—

All my madness—none can know;

All my hopes—where'er thou goest—

Wither—yet with thee they go.

Every feeling hath been shaken;

Pride—which not a world could bow—

Bows to thee—by thee forsaken,

Even my soul forsakes me now.