Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/174

But Heaven in wrath would turn away,
If Guilt should for the guiltless pray.
I do not ask him not to blame,
Too gentle he to wound my name;
And what have I to do with Fame?
I do not ask him not to mourn,
Such cold request might sound like scorn;
And what than Friendship's manly tear
May better grace a brother's bier? 1250
But bear this ring, his own of old,
And tell him—what thou dost behold!
The withered frame, the ruined mind,
The wrack by passion left behind,
A shrivelled scroll, a scattered leaf,
Seared by the autumn blast of Grief!
*****

"Tell me no more of Fancy's gleam,
No, father, no, 'twas not a dream;
Alas! the dreamer first must sleep,
I only watched, and wished to weep; 1260
But could not, for my burning brow
Throbbed to the very brain as now:
I wished but for a single tear,
As something welcome, new, and dear:
I wished it then, I wish it still;
Despair is stronger than my will.
Waste not thine orison, despair^{[lower-roman 1]}
Is mightier than thy pious prayer:
I would not, if I might, be blest;
I want no Paradise, but rest. 1270
'Twas then—I tell thee—father! then
I saw her; yes, she lived again;

Variants

1. Nay—kneel not, father, rise—despair.-[MS.]