LXXXIV.

LXXXIV. Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng; But viewed them not with misanthropic hate; Fain would he now have joined the dance, the song, But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate? Nought that he saw his sadness could abate: Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway, And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate, Poured forth this unpremeditated lay, To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day. TO INEZ. Nay, smile not at my sullen brow, Alas! I cannot smile again: Yet Heaven avert that ever thou Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. And dost thou ask what secret woe I bear, corroding joy and youth? And wilt thou vainly seek to know A pang even thou must fail to soothe? It is not love, it is not hate, Nor low Ambition's honours lost, 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? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life--the demon Thought. Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, And taste of all that I forsake: Oh! may they still of transport dream, And ne'er, at least like me, awake! Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, With many a retrospection curst; And all my solace is to know, Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. What is that worst? Nay, do not ask-- In pity from the search forbear: Smile on--nor venture to unmask Man's heart, and view the hell that's there.