Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 4.djvu/181

Rh Debarring me the usage of my own,

Blighting my life in best of its career,

Branding my thoughts as things to shun and fear?

Would I not pay them back these pangs again,

And teach them inward Sorrow's stifled groan?

The struggle to be calm, and cold distress,

Which undermines our Stoical success?

No!—still too proud to be vindictive—I

Have pardoned Princes' insults, and would die.

Yes, Sister of my Sovereign! for thy sake

I weed all bitterness from out my breast,

It hath no business where thou art a guest:

Thy brother hates—but I can not detest;

Thou pitiest not—but I can not forsake.

V.

Look on a love which knows not to despair,

But all unquenched is still my better part,

Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart,

As dwells the gathered lightning in its cloud,

Encompassed with its dark and rolling shroud,

Till struck,—forth flies the all-ethereal dart!

And thus at the collision of thy name

The vivid thought still flashes through my frame,

And for a moment all things as they were

Flit by me;—they are gone—I am the same.

And yet my love without ambition grew;

I knew thy state—my station—and I knew

A Princess was no love-mate for a bard;

I told it not—I breathed it not —it was