Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless, Among the stars that have a different birth,-- And ever changing, like a joyless eye 5 That finds no object worth its constancy? _Percy Bysshe Shelley._ CCXXXVIII _SONG._ If I had thought thou could’st have died, I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou could’st mortal be. It never through my mind had past 5 That time would e’er be o’er, And I on thee should look my last, And thou should’st smile no more! And still upon that face I look, And think ’twill smile again; 10 And still the thought I will not brook That I must look in vain. But when I speak thou dost not say, What thou ne’er left’st unsaid; And now I feel, as well I may, 15 Sweet Mary, thou art dead! If thou would’st stay, e’en as thou art, All cold, and all serene-- I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been! 20 While e’en thy chill, bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own; But there--I lay thee in thy grave, And I am now alone! I do not think, where’er thou art, 25 Thou hast forgotten me; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, In thinking still of thee: Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne’er seen before, 30 As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore! _Charles Wolfe._ CCXXXIX _ON ANOTHER’S SORROW._ Can I see another’s woe, And not be in sorrow too? Can I see another’s grief, And not seek for kind relief? Can I see a falling tear, 5 And not feel my sorrow’s share? Can a father see his child Weep, nor be with sorrow filled? Can a mother sit and hear An infant groan, an infant fear? 10 No, no! never can it be! Never, never can it be! And can He, who smiles on all, Hear the wren, with sorrows small, Hear the small bird’s grief and care, 15 Hear the woes that infants bear? And not sit beside the nest, Pouring pity in their breast? And not sit the cradle near, Weeping tear on infant’s tear? 20 And not sit both night and day, Wiping all our tears away? Oh, no! never can it be! Never, never can it be! He doth give his joy to all: 25 He becomes an infant small, He becomes a man of woe, He doth feel the sorrow too.