[Byron]   [Home]

 

ONE STRUGGLE MORE,
AND I AM FREE

By
Lord Byron


&/\&/\&

One struggle more, and I am free

From pangs that rend my heart in twain;

One last long sigh to love and thee,

Then back to busy life again.

It suits me well to mingle now

With things that never pleased before !

Though every joy is fled below,

What future grief can touch me more ?
 

Then bring me wine, the banquet bring;

Man was not form'd to live alone:

I'll be that light, unmeaning thing

That smiles with all, and weeps with none.

It was not thus in days more dear,

It never would have been, but thou

Hast fled, and left me lonely here;

Thou 'rt nothing --- all are nothing now.
 

In vain my lyre would lightly breathe !

The smile that sorrow fain would wear

But mocks the woe that lurks beneath,

Like roses o'er a sepulchre.

Though gay companions o'er the bowl

Dispel awhile the sense of ill :

Though pleasure fires the maddening soul,

The heart, --- the heart is lonely still !
 

On many a lone and lovely night

It sooth'd to gaze upon the sky;

For then I deem'd the heavenly light

Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye:

And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon,

When sailing o'er the Ægean wave,

" Now Thyrza gazes on that moon " ---

Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave !
 

When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed,

And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins,

" 'T is comfort still,"   I faintly said,

" That Thyrza cannot know my pains: "

Like freedom to the time-worn slave,

A boon 'tis idle then to give,

Relenting Nature vainly gave

My life, when Thyrza ceased to live !
 

My Thyrza's pledge in better days,

When love and life alike were new !

How different now thou meet'st  my gaze !

How tinged by time with sorrow's hue !

The heart that gave itself with thee

Is silent --- ah, were mine as still !

Though cold as e'en  the dead can be,

It feels,  it sickens with the chill.
 

Thou bitter pledge !    thou mournful token !

Though painful,  welcome to my breast !

Still,  still preserve that love unbroken,

Or break the heart to which thou'rt press'd.

Time tempers love, but not removes,

More hallow'd when its hope is fled:

Oh !   what are thousand living loves

To that which cannot quit the dead ?
 

&/\&/\&


 
[Byron]   [Home]