Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/110

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That bids me loathe my present state,
And fly from all I prized the most:


It is that weariness which springs
From all I meet, or hear, or see:
To me no pleasure Beauty brings;
Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.


It is that settled, ceaseless gloom
The fabled Hebrew Wanderer bore;
That will not look beyond the tomb,
But cannot hope for rest before.


What Exile from himself can flee?[1]
To zones though more and more remote,[2]
Still, still pursues, where'er I be,
The blight of Life—the Demon Thought.[3]


Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,

And taste of all that I forsake;
  1. [Compare Horace, Odes, II. xvi. 19, 20—

    "Patriæ quis exsul
    Se quoque fugit?"]

  2. To other zones howe'er remote
    Still, still pursuing clings to me
    .—[MS. erased.]

  3. [Compare Prior's Solomon, bk. iii. lines 85, 86—

    "In the remotest wood and lonely grot
    Certain to meet that worst of evils—thought."]