Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 4.djvu/186

152 That such as I could love—who blushed to hear

To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear,

Go! tell thy brother, that my heart, untamed

By grief—years—weariness—and it may be

A taint of that he would impute to me—

From long infection of a den like this,

Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss,—

Adores thee still;—and add—that when the towers

And battlements which guard his joyous hours

Of banquet, dance, and revel, are forgot,

Or left untended in a dull repose,

This—this—shall be a consecrated spot!

But Thou—when all that Birth and Beauty throws

Of magic round thee is extinct—shalt have

One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave.

No power in death can tear our names apart,

As none in life could rend thee from my heart.

Yes, Leonora! it shall be our fate

To be entwined for ever—but too late!