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It might be months, or years, or days,
I kept no count—I took no note, I had no hope my eyes to raise,
And clear them of their dreary mote;
I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where,
I learn'd to love despair.
Had power to kill—yet, strange to tell
Rousseau—Voltaire—our Gibbon—and de Staff— 5 Leman! these names are worthy of thy shore, Thy shore of names like these, wert thou no more,
Their memory thy remembrance would recall:
To them thy banks were lovely as to all,
But they have made them lovelier, for the lore
Of human hearts the ruin of a wall
Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but by thee
How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we feel,
The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal,
Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real!
STANZAS TO .
Though the day of my destiny's over,
And the star of my fate hath declined, Thy soft heart refused to discover
The faults which so many could find; Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,
It shrunk not to share it with me,
It never hath found but in thee.
Then when nature around me is smiling
I do not believe it beguiling
And when winds are at war with the ocean,
If their billows excite an emotion
Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd,
And its fragments are sunk in the wave, Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd
To pain—it shall not be its slave. There is many a pang to pursue me:
They may crush, but they shall not contemn— They may torture, but shall not subdue me—
'Tis of thee that I think—not of them.
Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
Though slander'd, thou never could'st shake,—
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,