Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 4.djvu/105

 MONODY ON THE DEATH

OF THE

SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE, LONDON.

the last sunshine of expiring Day

In Summer's twilight weeps itself away,

Who hath not felt the softness of the hour

Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower?

With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes

While Nature makes that melancholy pause—

Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time

Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime—

Who hath not shared that calm, so still and deep,

The voiceless thought which would not speak but weep,

A holy concord, and a bright regret,

A glorious sympathy with suns that set?

'Tis not harsh sorrow, but a tenderer woe,

Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below,

Felt without bitterness—but fall and clear,

A sweet dejection—a transparent tear,

Unmixed with worldly grief or selfish stain—

Shed without shame, and secret without pain.

Even as the tenderness that hour instils

When Summer's day declines along the hills,