And woo'd me from myself with thy sweet sight, Thou too art gone-and so is my delight: And therefore do I weep and inly bleed With this last bruise upon a broken reed. Thou too art ended-what is left me now? For I have anguish yet to bear-and how? I know not that-but in the innate force Of my own spirit shall be found resource. I have not sunk, for I had no remorse,
Nor cause for such: they call'd me mad-and why? O Leonora! wilt not thou reply?
I was indeed delirious in my heart
To lift my love so lofty as thou art; But still my frenzy was not of the mind;
I knew my fault, and feel my punishment Not less because I suffer it unbent.
That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind,
Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind;
But let them go, or torture as they will,
My heart can multiply thine image still;
Successful love may sate itself away,
The wretched are the faithful; 'tis their fate To have all feeling save the one decay, And every passion into one dilate,
As rapid rivers into ocean pour;
But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore.
Above me, hark! the long and maniac cry Of minds and bodies in captivity,
And hark! the lash and the increasing howl, And the half-inarticulate blasphemy!
There be some here with worse than frenzy foul,
Some who do still goad on the o'erlabour'd mind, And dim the little light that's left behind With needless torture, as their tyrant will
Is wound up to the lust of doing ill:
With these and with their victims am I class'd,
'Mid sounds and sights like these long years have pass'd:
'Mid sounds and sights like these my life
So let it be-for then I shall repose.
I have been patient, let me be so yet;
I had forgotten half I would forget,
But it revives-oh! would it were my lot
To be forgetful as I am forgot!
Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell
In this vast lazar-house of many woes?
Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the mind,
Nor words a language, nor even men mankind;
Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows,
And each is tortured in his separate hell
For we are crowded in our solitudes
Many, but each divided by the wall,
Which echoes Madness in her babbling moods;
While all can hear, none heed his neighbour's call- None! save that One, the veriest wretch of all, Who was not made to be the mate of these, Nor bound between Distraction and Disease. Feel I not wroth with those who placed me here? Who have debased me in the minds of men, Debarring me the usage of my own,
Blighting my life in best of its career,
Branding my thoughts as things to shun and fear? Would I not pay them back these pangs again, And teach them inward Sorrow's stifled groan? The struggle to be calm, and cold distress, Which undermines our Stoical success? No!-still too proud to be vindictive-I Have pardon'd princes' insults, and would die. Yes, Sister of my Sovereign! for thy sake I weed all bitterness from out my breast, It hath no business where thou art a guest; Thy brother hates-but I can not detest; Thou pitiest not-but I can not forsake.
Look on a love which knows not to despair, But all unquench'd is still my better part, Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart, As dwells the gather'd lightning in its cloud, Encompass'd with its dark and rolling shroud, Till struck-forth flies the all-ethereal dart! And thus at the collision of thy name The vivid thought still flashes through my frame, And for a moment all things as they were Flit by me; they are gone-I am the same. And yet my love without ambition grew; I knew thy state, my station, and I knew A Princess was no love-mate for a bard; I told it not, I breathed it not, it was Sufficient to itself, its own reward; And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas! Were punish'd by the silentness of thine, And yet I did not venture to repine. Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around Hallow'd and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground; Not for thou wert a princess, but that Love Had robed thee with a glory, and array'd Thy lineaments in a beauty that dismay'd- Oh! not dismay'd-but awed, like One above! And in that sweet severity there was
A something which all softness did surpass- I know not how-thy genius master'd mine- My star stood still before thee:-if it were Presumptuous thus to love without design, That sad fatality hath cost me dear; But thou art dearest still, and I should be Fit for this cell, which wrongs me-but for thee.
The very love which lock'd me to my chain Hath lighten'd half its weight; and for the rest, Though heavy, lent me vigour to sustain,
And look to thee with undivided breast, And foil the ingenuity of Pain.
It is no marvel-from my very birth
My soul was drunk with love—which did pervade And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth; Of objects all inanimate I made
Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers, And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise, Where I did lay me down within the shade Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours, Though I was chid for wandering; and the Wise Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said Of such materials wretched men were made, And such a truant boy would end in woe, And that the only lesson was a blow; And then they smote me, and I did not weep, But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt Return'd and wept alone, and dream'd again The visions which arise without a sleep. And with my years my soul began to pant With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain; And the whole heart exhaled into One Want, But undefined and wandering, till the day
I found the thing I sought-and that was thee; And then I lost my being all to be
Absorb'd in thine-the world was pass'd away- Thou didst annihilate the earth to me!
I loved all Solitude-but little thought To spend I know not what of life, remote From all communion with existence, save The maniac and his tyrant;-had I been Their fellow, many years ere this had seen My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave, But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me rave? Perchance in such a cell we suffer more Than the wreck'd sailor on his desert shore: The world is all before him-mine is here, Scarce twice the space they must accord my bier. What though he perish, he may lift his eye And with a dying glance upbraid the sky- I will not raise my own in such reproof, Although 'tis clouded by my dungeon roof.
Yet do I feel at times my mind decline, But with a sense of its decay :-I see Unwonted lights along my prison shine, And a strange demon, who is vexing me With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below The feeling of the healthful and the free;
But much to One, who long hath suffer'd so, Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place, And all that may be borne, or can debase. I thought mine enemies had been but Man, But spirits may be leagued with them-all Earth Abandons-Heaven forgets me;-in the dearth Of such defence the Powers of Evil can, It may be, tempt me further-and prevail Against the outworn creature they assail. Why in this furnace is my spirit proved Like steel in tempering fire?-because I loved? Because I loved what not to love, and see, Was more or less than mortal, and than me. IX.
I once was quick in feeling-that is o'er;- My scars are callous, or I should have dash'd My brain against these bars, as the sun flash'd In mockery through them;-If I bear and bore The much I have recounted, and the more Which hath no words,-'tis that I would not die And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie
Which snared me here, and with the brand of shame Stamp Madness deep into my memory,
And woo Compassion to a blighted name,
Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim. No-it shall be immortal!-and I make
A future temple of my present cell,
Which nations yet shall visit for my sake.
While thou, Ferrara! when no longer dwell The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall down, And crumbling piecemeal view thy hearthless halls, A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown- A poet's dungeon thy most far renown, While strangers wander o'er thy unpeopled walls! And thou, Leonora!--thou-who wert ashamed That such as I could love-who blush'd to hear To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear, Go! tell thy brother, that my heart, untamed By grief, years, weariness-and it may be A taint of that he would impute to me,
From long infection of a den like this,
Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss
Adores thee still;-and add-that when the towers
And battlements which guard his joyous hours Of banquet, dance, and revel are forgot, Or left untended in a dull repose, This-this-shall be a consecrated spot!
But thou-when all that Birth and Beauty throws Of magic round thee is extinct-shalt have
One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave. No power in death can tear our names apart,
As none in life could rend thee from my heart.
Yes, Leonora ! it shall be our fate
To be entwined for ever-but too late!
"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
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