XII. HY did I laugh to-night? No voice will tell : No God, no Demou of severe re sponse, Deigns to reply from Heaven or from Hell. I say, why did I laugh? O mortal pain! To question Heaven and Hell and Heart in vain. Why did I laugh? I know this Being's lease, My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads; Yet would I on this very midnight cease, And the world's gaudy ensigns see in shreds; Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed, But Death intenser-Death is Life's high meed. 1819. XIII. ON A DREAM. S Hermes once took to his feathers light, When lulled Argus, baffled, swoon'd and slept, So on a Delphic reed, my idle spright, So play'd, so charm'd, so conquer'd, so bereft The dragon-world of all its hundred eyes. And seeing it asleep, so fled away, Not to pure Ida with its snow-cold skies, Nor unto Tempe, where Jove grieved a day ; But to that second circle of sad Hell, Where in the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw Of rain and hail-stones, lovers need not tell Their sorrows,-pale were the sweet lips I saw, Pale were the lips I kiss'd, and fair the form I floated with, about that melancholy storm. 1819. XIV. F by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd, And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet Fetter'd, in spite of pained loveliness; Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wrean crown; So, if we may not let the Muse be free, She will be bound with garlands of her own. 1819. XV. HE day is gone, and all its sweets are gone! Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast, Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone, Bright eyes, accomplish'd shape, and lang'rous waist! Faded the flower and all its budded charms, 1819. XVI. CRY your mercy-pity-love!-aye, love! Merciful love that tantalises not, One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love, Unmask'd, and being seen-without a blot! O! let me have thee whole,-all-all-be mine! That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest Of love, your kiss,- those hands, those eyes divine, That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast, Yourself your soul-in pity give me all, 1819. B XVII. HIS LAST SONNET.1 RIGHT star! would I were steadfast as thou art Not in lone splendour hung aloft the And watching, with eternal lids apart, Of snow upon the mountains and the moors-No-yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and sweil, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, This was written in a copy of Shakespeare's Poems given to Mr Severn a few days before. SONNET OF DOUBTFUL AUTHENTICITY. LEASURES lie thickest where no pleasures seem. There's not a leaf that falls upon the But holds some joy of silence or of sound- And hath its Eves and Edens-so I deem. Minute or mighty, fix'd or fleet with wings, I believe this to be one of George Byron's forgeries |