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Lord Byron
January 15, 1815


Oh, Mariamne !   now for thee

The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding;

Revenge is lost in Agony

And wild Remorse to rage succeeding.

Oh, Mariamne !   where art thou?

Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading:

Ah !   could'st thou --- thou would'st pardon now,

Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding.


And is she dead? --- and did they dare

Obey my Frenzy's jealous raving?

My Wrath but doomed my own despair:

The sword that smote her 's o'er me waving ---

But thou art cold, my murder'd Love !

And this dark heart is vainly craving

For her who soars alone above,

And leaves my soul, unworthy saving.


She's gone, who shared my diadem;

She sunk, with her my joys entombing;

I swept that flower from Judah's stem,

Whose leaves for me alone were blooming;

And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell,

This bosom's desolation dooming;

And I have earned those tortures well,

Which unconsumed are still consuming !


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