« ElőzőTovább »
For thee, who thus in too protracted song
Since cold each kinder heart that might approve,
xcv. Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one! Whom youth and youth's affection bound to me; Who did for me what none beside have done, Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. What is my being ? thou hast ceased to be! Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home, Who mourns o’er hours which we no more shall see
Would they had never been, or were to come! Would he had ne'er return’d to find fresh cause to roam !
XCVI. Oh! ever loving, lovely, and beloved ! How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past, And clings to thoughts now better far removed ! But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last. All thou could'st have of mine, stern Death! thou hast; The parent, friend, and now the more than friend : Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast,
And grief with grief continuing still to blend, Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to lend.
XCVII. Then must I plunge again into the crowd, And follow all that Peace disdains to seek? Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud, False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak; Still o'er the features, which perforce they cheer, To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique;
Smiles form the channel of a future tear, Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer.
XCVIII. What is the worst of woes that wait on age ? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life's page, And be alone on earth, as I am now. Before the Chastener humbly let me bow, O’er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroy'd : Roll on, vain days ! full reckless may ye flow, Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy'd, And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy'd.
END OF CANTO THE SECOND).
Afin que cette application vous forçât de penser à autre chose ; il n'y a en vérité de remède que celui-là et le temps.
Lettre du Roi de Prusse d D'Alembert,
Sept. 7, 1776.
Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child !
Awaking with a start,
Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by, When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.