Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 4.djvu/182

148 Sufficient to itself, its own reward;

And if my eyes revealed it, they, alas!

Were punished by the silentness of thine,

And yet I did not venture to repine.

Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine,

Worshipped at holy distance, and around

Hallowed and meekly kissed the saintly ground;

Not for thou wert a Princess, but that Love

Had robed thee with a glory, and arrayed

Thy lineaments in beauty that dismayed—

Oh! not dismayed—but awed, like One above!

And in that sweet severity there was

A something which all softness did surpass—

I know not how—thy Genius mastered mine—

My Star stood still before thee:—if it were

Presumptuous thus to love without design,

That sad fatality hath cost me dear;

But thou art dearest still, and I should be

Fit for this cell, which wrongs me—but for thee.

The very love which locked me to my chain

Hath lightened half its weight; and for the rest,

Though heavy, lent me vigour to sustain,

And look to thee with undivided breast,

And foil the ingenuity of Pain.

VI.

It is no marvel—from my very birth

My soul was drunk with Love,—which did pervade

And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth:

Of objects all inanimate I made

Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers,