What need to clutch with iron grasp What gentlest touch may take? What need with aspect dark to scare, So awfully, so terribly, The weary soul would hardly care, Call'd quietly, call'd tenderly, From thy dread power to break? 'Tis not as when thou markest out The young, the blest, the gay, The loved, the loving--they who dream So happily, so hopefully; Then harsh thy kindest call may seem, And shrinkingly, reluctantly, The summon'd may obey. But I have drunk enough of life-- The cup assign'd to me Dash'd with a little sweet at best, So scantily, so scantily-- To know full well that all the rest More bitterly, more bitterly, Drugg'd to the last will be. And I may live to pain some heart That kindly cares for me: To pain, but not to bless. O Death! Come quietly--come lovingly-- And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath; Then willingly, O willingly, I'll go away with thee! George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. 1788-1824 597. When we Two parted WHEN we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow-- It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame: I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame. They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me-- Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well: Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell. In secret we met-- In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? With silence and tears. George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. 1788-1824 598. For Music THERE be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lull'd winds seem dreaming: And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean. George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. 1788-1824 599. We'll go no more a-roving SO, we'll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon. George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. 1788-1824 600. She walks in Beauty