Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 4.djvu/94

64 Mercy is for the merciful!—if thou

Hast been of such, 'twill be accorded now.

Thy nights are banished from the realms of sleep:—

Yes! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel

A hollow agony which will not heal,

For thou art pillowed on a curse too deep;

Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap

The bitter harvest in a woe as real!

I have had many foes, but none like thee;

For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend,

And be avenged, or turn them into friend;

But thou in safe implacability

Hadst nought to dread—in thy own weakness shielded,

And in my love, which hath but too much yielded,

And spared, for thy sake, some I should not spare;

And thus upon the world—trust in thy truth,

And the wild fame of my ungoverned youth—

On things that were not, and on things that are—

Even upon such a basis hast thou built

A monument, whose cement hath been guilt!

The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord,

And hewed down, with an unsuspected sword,

Fame, peace, and hope—and all the better life

Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart,

Might still have risen from out the grave of strife,

And found a nobler duty than to part.

But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice,

Trafficking with them in a purpose cold,