Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 4.djvu/178

144 Stands scoffing through the never-opened gate,

Which nothing through its bars admits, save day,

And tasteless food, which I have eat alone

Till its unsocial bitterness is gone;

And I can banquet like a beast of prey,

Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave

Which is my lair, and—it may be—my grave.

All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear,

But must be borne. I stoop not to despair;

For I have battled with mine agony,

And made me wings wherewith to overfly

The narrow circus of my dungeon wall,

And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall;

And revelled among men and things divine,

And poured my spirit over Palestine,

In honour of the sacred war for Him,

The God who was on earth and is in Heaven,

For He has strengthened me in heart and limb.

That through this sufferance I might be forgiven,

I have employed my penance to record

How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored.

II.

But this is o'er—my pleasant task is done:

My long-sustaining Friend of many years!

If I do blot thy final page with tears,

Know, that my sorrows have wrung from me none.

But Thou, my young creation! my Soul's child!

Which ever playing round me came and smiled,