But me, whose heart a stranger's tear might wear,
As water-drops the sandy fountain stone;

Who loved and pitied all things, and could moan
For woes which others hear not, and could see
The absent with the glass of phantasy,
And near the poor and trampled sit and weep,
Following the captive to his dungeon deep;
Me, who am as a nerve o'er which do creep
The else-unfelt oppressions of this earth,
And was to thee the flame upon thy hearth,
When all beside was cold:-that thou on me
Shouldst rain these plagues of blistering agony-
Such curses are from lips once eloquent
With love's too partial praise! Let none relent
Who intend deeds too dreadful for a name
Henceforth, if an example for the same

They seek for thou on me lookedst so and so,
And didst speak thus and thus. I live to shew
How much men bear and die not.

less;

With the grimace of hate, how horrible
It was to meet my love when thine grew

Thou wilt admire how I could e'er address

Such features to love's work. . . . This taunt, tho' true,

(For indeed nature nor in form nor hue Bestowed on me her choicest workmanship)

Shall not be thy defence: for since thy life

Met mine first, years long past,-since thine eye kindled

With soft fire under mine,-I have not dwindled,

Nor changed in mind, or body, or in aught
But as love changes what it loveth not
After long years and many trials.

"How vain

Are words! I thought never to speak again,
Not even in secret, not to my own heart—
But from my lips the unwilling accents start,
And from my pen the words flow as I write,
Dazzling my eyes with scalding tears--my sight
Is dim to see that charactered in vain,

On this unfeeling leaf, which burns the brain
And eats into it, blotting all things fair,

And wise and good, which time had written there.
Those who inflict must suffer, for they see

The work of their own hearts, and that must be
Our chastisement or recompense.--O, child!

I would that thine were like to be more mild
For both our wretched sakes,-for thine the most,
Who feel'st already all that thou hast lost,
Without the power to wish it thine again.
And, as slow years pass, a funereal train,
Each with the ghost of some lost hope or friend
Following it like its shadow, wilt thou bend
No thought on my dead memory?

*

*

"Alas, love!

Fear me not: against thee I'd not move

A finger in despite. Do I not live

That thou mayst have less bitter cause to grieve?

I give thee tears for scorn, and love for hate;
And, that thy lot may be less desolate

Than his on whom thou tramplest, I refrain
From that sweet sleep which medicines all pain.
Then-when thou speakest of me-never say,
'He could forgive not'-Here I cast away
All human passions, all revenge, all pride;
I think, speak, act no ill; I do but hide
Under these words, like embers, every spark
Of that which has consumed me. Quick and dark
The grave is yawning :-as its roof shall cover
My limbs with dust and worms, under and over;
So let oblivion hide this grief-The air
Closes upon my accents, as despair

Upon my heart-let death upon despair!"

He ceased, and overcome, leant back awhile;
Then rising, with a melancholy smile,
Went to a sopha, and lay down, and slept
A heavy sleep, and in his dreams he wept,
And muttered some familiar name, and we
Wept without shame in his society.

I think I never was impress'd so much;

The man who were not, must have lack'd a touch
Of human nature. Then we linger'd not,
Although our argument was quite forgot;
But, calling the attendants, went to dine
At Maddalo's :—yet neither cheer nor wine
Could give us spirits, for we talked of him,
And nothing else, till daylight made stars dim.
And we agreed it was some dreadful ill
Wrought on him boldly, yet unspeakable,

By a dear friend; some deadly change in love
Of one vow'd deeply which he dreamed not of;
For whose sake he, it seemed, had fixed a blot
Of falsehood in his mind, which flourish'd not
But in the light of all-beholding truth;

And having stamped this canker on his youth,
She had abandoned him :-and how much more
Might be his woe, we guessed not:-he had store
Of friends and fortune once, as we could guess
From his nice habits and his gentleness:
These now were lost-it were a grief indeed
If he had changed one unsustaining reed
For all that such a man might else adorn.
The colours of his mind seemed yet unworn;
For the wild language of his grief was high-
Such as in measure were called poetry.

And I remember one remark, which then
Maddalo made: he said-" Most wretched men
Are cradled into poetry by wrong:

They learn in suffering what they teach in song."

If I had been an unconnected man,

I, from this moment, should have form'd some plan Never to leave sweet Venice: for to me

It was delight to ride by the lone sea:

And then the town is silent-one may write,
Or read in gondolas by day or night,

Having the little brazen lamp alight,
Unseen, uninterrupted :-books are there,
Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair
Which were twin-born with poetry;—and all
We seek in towns, with little to recal

Regret for the green country :-I might sit
In Maddalo's great palace, and his wit
And subtle talk would cheer the winter night,
And make me know myself:-and the fire light
Would flash upon our faces, till the day

Might dawn, and make me wonder at my stay.
But I had friends in London too. The chief
Attraction here was that I sought relief
From the deep tenderness that maniac wrought
Within me 'twas perhaps an idle thought,
But I imagined that if, day by day,

I watched him, and seldom went away,
And studied all the beatings of his heart
With zeal, as men study some stubborn art
For their own good, and could by patience find
An entrance to the caverns of his mind,
I might reclaim him from his dark estate.
In friendships I had been most fortunate,
Yet never saw I one whom I would call
More willingly my friend;—and this was all
Accomplish'd not;-such dreams of baseless good
Oft come and go, in crowds or solitude,
And leave no trace!—but what I now design'd,
Made, for long years, impression on my mind.
-The following morning, urged by my affairs,
I left bright Venice.—

After many years, And many changes, I returned; the name Of Venice, and its aspect, was the same; But Maddalo was travelling, far away, Among the mountains of Armenia.