Invisible but gazing, as I glow
Mixed with thy spirit, blended with thy birth,
And feeling still with thee in my crushed feelings' dearth.
VII.
Yet must I think less wildly:—I have thought
Too long and darkly, till my brain became,
In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought,
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame:[1]
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame,
My springs of life were poisoned.[2] 'Tis too late!
Yet am I changed; though still enough the same
In strength to bear what Time can not abate,[3]
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate.
VIII.
Something too much of this:—but now 'tis past,
And the spell closes with its silent seal—[4]
- ↑ A dizzy world ——.—[MS. erased.]
- ↑ [Compare The Dream, viii. 6, seq.—
"Pain was mixed
In all which was served up to him, until ····· He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment."] - ↑ To bear unbent what Time cannot abate.—[MS.]
- ↑ [Of himself as distinct from Harold he will say no more. On the tale or spell of his own tragedy is set the seal of silence; but of Harold, the idealized Byron, he once more takes up the parable. In stanzas viii.-xv. he puts the reader in possession of some natural changes, and unfolds the
