But Jealousy has fled:  his bars, his bolts,
   His withered sentinel, duenna sage! 
   And all whereat the generous soul revolts,
   Which the stern dotard deemed he could encage,
   Have passed to darkness with the vanished age. 
   Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen
   (Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage),
   With braided tresses bounding o’er the green,
While on the gay dance shone Night’s lover-loving Queen?

LXXXII.

   Oh! many a time and oft had Harold loved,
   Or dreamed he loved, since rapture is a dream;
   But now his wayward bosom was unmoved,
   For not yet had he drunk of Lethe’s stream: 
   And lately had he learned with truth to deem
   Love has no gift so grateful as his wings: 
   How fair, how young, how soft soe’er he seem,
   Full from the fount of joy’s delicious springs
Some bitter o’er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.

LXXXIII.

   Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind,
   Though now it moved him as it moves the wise;
   Not that Philosophy on such a mind
   E’er deigned to bend her chastely-awful eyes: 
   But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies;
   And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb,
   Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise: 
   Pleasure’s palled victim! life-abhorring gloom
Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain’s unresting doom.

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.