Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 4.djvu/52

22 And not a word of murmur—not

A groan o'er his untimely lot,—

A little talk of better days,

A little hope my own to raise,

For I was sunk in silence—lost

In this last loss, of all the most;

And then the sighs he would suppress

Of fainting Nature's feebleness,

More slowly drawn, grew less and less:

I listened, but I could not hear;

I called, for I was wild with fear;

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread

Would not be thus admonishéd;

I called, and thought I heard a sound—

I burst my chain with one strong bound,

And rushed to him:—I found him not,

I only stirred in this black spot,

I only lived, I only drew

The accursed breath of dungeon-dew;

The last, the sole, the dearest link

Between me and the eternal brink,

Which bound me to my failing race,

Was broken in this fatal place.

One on the earth, and one beneath—

My brothers—both had ceased to breathe:

I took that hand which lay so still,

Alas! my own was full as chill;

I had not strength to stir, or strive,

But felt that I was still alive—

A frantic feeling, when we know

That what we love shall ne'er be so.

I know not why

I could not die,

I had no earthly hope—but faith,

And that forbade a selfish death.