Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 4.djvu/286

248 Unblasted by the Glory, though he trod

From star to star to reach the almighty throne.

Oh Beatricē! whose sweet limbs the sod

So long hath pressed, and the cold marble stone,

Thou sole pure Seraph of my earliest love,

Love so ineffable, and so alone,

That nought on earth could more my bosom move,

And meeting thee in Heaven was but to meet

That without which my Soul, like the arkless dove,

Had wandered still in search of, nor her feet

Relieved her wing till found; without thy light

My Paradise had still been incomplete.

Since my tenth sun gave summer to my sight

Thou wert my Life, the Essence of my thought,

Loved ere I knew the name of Love, and bright

Still in these dim old eyes, now overwrought

With the World's war, and years, and banishment,

And tears for thee, by other woes untaught;