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And we agreed his was some dreadful ill
Wrought on him bodily, yet unspeakable,
By a dear friend; some deadly change in love
Of one vowed deeply which he dreamed not of;
For whose sake he, it seemed, had fixed a blot
Of falsehood on his mind which flourished not
But in the light of all-beholding truth,

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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 were now 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 formed some plan Never to leave sweet Venice, for to me

It was delight to ride by the lone sea;

"Her coming made him better, and they stayed "Together at my father's—for I played

"As I remember with the lady's shawl —

"I might be six years old—but after all

"She left him"... "Why, her heart must have been


"How did it end?" "And was not this enough?

"They met they parted'

"Child, is there no


"Something within that interval which bore

"The stamp of why they parted, how they met :

"Yet if thine agèd eyes disdain to wet

"Those wrinkled cheeks with youth's remembered tears, "Ask me no more, but let the silent years "Be closed and cered over their memory

"As yon mute marble where their corpses lie."

I urged and questioned still, she told me how
All happened - but the cold world shall not know.




THE odour from the flower is gone, Which like thy kisses breathed on me ; The colour from the flower is flown, Which glowed of thee, and only thee!


A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form,

It lies on my abandoned breast, And mocks the heart which yet is warm With cold and silent rest.


I weep-my tears revive it not !

I sigh-it breathes no more on me;

Its mute and uncomplaining lot

Is such as mine should be.




THE sun is warm, the sky is clear,

The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear The purple noon's transparent might, The breath of the moist earth is light, Around its unexpanded buds ;

Like many a voice of one delight,

The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.


I see the Deep's untrampled floor

With green and purple seaweed strown ;

I see the waves upon the shore,

Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown:
I sit upon the sands alone,

The lightning of the noon-tide ocean

Is flashing round me, and a tone

Arises from its measured motion,

How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.


Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within nor calm around,
Nor that content surpassing wealth
The sage in meditation found,

And walked with inward glory crowned
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.
Others I see whom these surround-

Smiling they live and call life pleasure ;· To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.


Yet now despair itself is mild,

Even as the winds and waters are;
I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care

Which I have borne and yet must bear,
Till death like sleep might steal on me,
And I might feel in the warm air
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.


Some might lament that I were cold,
As I, when this sweet day is gone,
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,
Insults with this untimely moan;

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