Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 4.djvu/185

Rh With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below

The feeling of the healthful and the free;

But much to One, who long hath suffered so,

Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place,

And all that may be borne, or can debase.

I thought mine enemies had been but Man,

But Spirits may be leagued with them—all Earth

Abandons—Heaven forgets me; in the dearth

Of such defence the Powers of Evil can—

It may be—tempt me further,—and prevail

Against the outworn creature they assail.

Why in this furnace is my spirit proved,

Like steel in tempering fire? because I loved?

Because I loved what not to love, and see,

Was more or less than mortal, and than me.

IX.

I once was quick in feeling—that is o'er;—

My scars are callous, or I should have dashed

My brain against these bars, as the sun flashed

In mockery through them;—If I bear and bore

The much I have recounted, and the more

Which hath no words,—'t is that I would not die

And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie

Which snared me here, and with the brand of shame

Stamp Madness deep into my memory,

And woo Compassion to a blighted name,

Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim.

No—it shall be immortal!—and I make

A future temple of my present cell,

Which nations yet shall visit for my sake.

While thou, Ferrara! when no longer dwell

The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall down,

And crumbling piecemeal view thy hearthless halls,

A Poet's wreath shall be thine only crown,—

A Poet's dungeon thy most far renown,

While strangers wonder o'er thy unpeopled walls!

And thou, Leonora!—thou—who wert ashamed