George Gordon Byron

CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE
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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, (...)
(......)