George Gordon Byron (1788–1824)

The portal opens—’tis a well known face—

But not the form he panted to embrace.

Its lips are silent—twice his own essay’d,

And fail’d to frame the question they delay’d;

He snatch’d the lamp—its light will answer all—

It quits his grasp—expiring in the fall.

He would not wait for that reviving ray—

As soon could he have lingered there for day;

But, glimmering through the dusky corridore,

Another chequers o’er the shadowed floor;

His steps the chamber gain—his eyes behold

All that his heart believed not—yet foretold!

He turn’d not—spoke not—sunk not—fix’d his look,

And set the anxious frame that lately shook:

He gazed—how long we gaze despite of pain.

And know—but dare not own we gaze in vain!

In life itself she was so still and fair,

That death with gentler aspect withered there;

And the cold flowers her colder hand contain’d,

In that last grasp as tenderly were strain’d

As if she scarcely felt, but feign’d a sleep,

And made it almost mockery yet to weep:

The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow—

And veil’d—thought shrinks from all that lurk’d below—

Oh! o’er the eye death most exerts his might,

And hurls the spirit from her throne of light!

Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse,

But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips—

Yet—yet they seem as they forbore to smile.

And wish’d repose—but only for a while;

But the white shroud, and each extended tress,

Long—fair—but spread in utter lifelessness.

Which, late the sport of every summer wind.

Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind;

These—and the pale pure cheek, became the bier—

But she is nothing—wherefore is he here?

He ask’d no question—all were answer’d now

By the first glance on that still—marble brow.

It was enough—she died—what reck’d it how?

The love of youth, the hope of better years,

The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears.

The only living thing he could not hate.

Was reft at once—and he deserv’d his fate.

But did not feel it less;—the good explore,

For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar:

The proud—the wayward—who have fixed below

Their joy—and find this earth enough for woe,

Lose in that one their all—perchance a mite—

But who in patience parts with all delight?

Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern

Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn;

And many a withering thought lies hid—not lost—

In smiles that least befit who wear them most.

By those, that deepest feel, are ill exprest

The indistinctness of the suffering breast;

Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one,

Which seeks from all the refuge found in none;

No words suffice the secret soul to show.

And Truth denies all eloquence to Woe.

On Conrad’s stricken soul exhaustion prest,

And stupor almost lull’d it into rest;

So feeble now—his mother’s softness crept

To those wild eyes, which like an infant’s wept:

It was the very weakness of his brain,

Which thus confess’d without relieving pain.

None saw his trickling tears—perchance, if seen,

That useless flood of grief had never been:

Nor long they flowed—he dried them to depart,

In helpless—hopeless—brokenness of heart:

The sun goes forth—but Conrad’s day is dim—

And the night cometh—ne’er to pass from him—

There is no darkness like the cloud of mind,

On Grief’s vain eye—the blindest of the blind!

Which may not—dare not see—but turns aside

To blackest shade—nor will endure a guide!

His heart was form’d for softness—warp’d to wrong—

Betray’d too early, and beguil’d too long;

Each feeling pure—as falls the dropping dew

Within the grot; like that had harden’d too;—

Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass’d,

But sunk, and chill’d, and petrified at last.

Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock;

If such his heart, so shatter’d it the shock.

There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow,

Though dark the shade—it shelter’d,—saved till now.

The thunder came—that bolt hath blasted both,

The Granite’s firmness, and the Lily’s growth:

The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell

Its tale, but shrunk and wither’d where it fell,

And of its cold protector, blacken round

But shiver’d fragments on the barren ground!