Oh, I would give my heart to death, To keep my honour fair; Yet, I'll not give my inward faith My honour's NAME to spare! Not even to keep your priceless love, Dare I, Beloved, deceive; This treason should the future prove, Then, only then, believe! I know the path I ought to go I follow fearlessly, Inquiring not what deeper woe Stern duty stores for me. So foes pursue, and cold allies Mistrust me, every one: Let me be false in others' eyes, If faithful in my own. STANZAS. I'll not weep that thou art going to leave me, There's nothing lovely here; And doubly will the dark world grieve me, While thy heart suffers there. I'll not weep, because the summer's glory Must always end in gloom; And, follow out the happiest story-- It closes with a tomb! And I am weary of the anguish Increasing winters bear; Weary to watch the spirit languish Through years of dead despair. So, if a tear, when thou art dying, Should haply fall from me, It is but that my soul is sighing, To go and rest with thee. MY COMFORTER. Well hast thou spoken, and yet not taught A feeling strange or new; Thou hast but roused a latent thought, A cloud-closed beam of sunshine brought To gleam in open view. Deep down, concealed within my soul, That light lies hid from men; Yet glows unquenched--though shadows roll, Its gentle ray cannot control-- About the sullen den. Was I not vexed, in these gloomy ways To walk alone so long? Around me, wretches uttering praise, Or howling o'er their hopeless days, And each with Frenzy's tongue;-- A brotherhood of misery, Their smiles as sad as sighs; Whose madness daily maddened me, Distorting into agony The bliss before my eyes! So stood I, in Heaven's glorious sun, And in the glare of Hell; My spirit drank a mingled tone, Of seraph's song, and demon's moan; What my soul bore, my soul alone Within itself may tell! Like a soft, air above a sea, Tossed by the tempest's stir; A thaw-wind, melting quietly The snow-drift on some wintry lea; No: what sweet thing resembles thee, My thoughtful Comforter? And yet a little longer speak, Calm this resentful mood; And while the savage heart grows meek, For other token do not seek, But let the tear upon my cheek Evince my gratitude! THE OLD STOIC. Riches I hold in light esteem, And Love I laugh to scorn; And lust of fame was but a dream, That vanished with the morn: And if I pray, the only prayer That moves my lips for me Is, "Leave the heart that now I bear, And give me liberty!"