. A selection from the works of Lord Byron. STANZAS. Could Love for ever Run like a river, And Times endeavour Be tried in vain—No other pleasureWith this could measure ;And like a treasure Wed hug the since our sighingEnds not in dying,And, formd for flying, Love plumes his wing ;Then for this reasonLets love a season ;But let that season be only Spring. STANZAS. 24I When lovers partedFeel broken-hearted,And, all hopes thwarted, Expect to die;A few years older,Ah ! how much colderThey might behold her For whom they sigh!When linkd together,In every weather,They pluck Loves feather F
. A selection from the works of Lord Byron. STANZAS. Could Love for ever Run like a river, And Times endeavour Be tried in vain—No other pleasureWith this could measure ;And like a treasure Wed hug the since our sighingEnds not in dying,And, formd for flying, Love plumes his wing ;Then for this reasonLets love a season ;But let that season be only Spring. STANZAS. 24I When lovers partedFeel broken-hearted,And, all hopes thwarted, Expect to die;A few years older,Ah ! how much colderThey might behold her For whom they sigh!When linkd together,In every weather,They pluck Loves feather From out his wing—?Hell stay for ever,But sadly shiverWithout his plumage, when past the ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR. Missolctnghi, Jan. 22, 1824. Tis time this heart should be unmoved,Since others it hath ceased to move:Yet, though I cannot be beloved,Still let me love ! My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone;The worm, the canker, and the griefAre mine alone! The fire that on my bosom preysIs lone as some volcanic isle;No torch is kindled at its blaze—A funeral pile. MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR. 243 The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the painAnd power of love, I cannot share,But wear the chain. But tis not thus—and tis not here— Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now,Where glory decks the heros bier,Or binds his brow. The sword, the banner, and the field,Glory and Greece, around me see!The Spartan, borne upon his shield,Was not more free. Awake ! (not Greece—she is awake !) Awake, my spirit! Think through whomThy life-blood tracks its parent lake,And then strike home! Tread those reviving pa
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