Edward Bulwer-Lytton (Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон)

Lost and Avenged

  O God, give me rest from a thought!
    I cannot escape it nor brave;
  Dread ghost of a joy that I sought
    To harrow my soul from its grave!

  Farewell to the smile of the sun,
    The cheerful Religion of Trust!
  I centred my future in One,
    And wake as it crumbles to dust!

  Oh, blest are the tears that are shed
    For love that was true to the last.
  The future restores us the dead,
    The false we expel from the past.--

  Yet all, when I summon my pride
    Thyself as I find thee to see,
  Again there descends to my side
    The angel I dreamt thee to be.

  Again thou enchantest my ear;
    My soul hangs again on thy breath,
  And murmurs that melt in a tear
    Repeat "I am thine unto death!"

  Again is the light of thine eyes
    The limpid reflection of Truth;
  Thy smile gives me back to the skies
    That lit the ideals of youth.

  Oh, is it thyself that I mourn,
    Or is it that dream of my heart
  Which glides from the reach of my scorn,
    And soars from the clay that thou art?

  Well, go--take this comfort with thee,
    (I know thou art vain of thy power,)
  Thou hast blighted existence for me,
    Thou hast left not a germ for the flower;

  My star may escape the eclipse,
    The music that tuned it is o'er;
  The smile may return to my lips--
    It fades from my heart evermore;

  Yet dark on thy being will fall
    A shade from the wreck of my own,
  Long years shalt thou sigh over all
    Thou hast in a day overthrown.

  For none shall exalt thee as I!
    Ah, none whom thy spells may control
  Shall deck thee in hues from the sky,
    And breathe in thy statue his soul.--

  None build from the glories of song
    The brighter existence above,
  The realm which to poets belong,
    The throne they bestow where they love.

  Let earth its chill colours regain,
    The moonlight depart from thy sea,
  Explore through creation in vain
    The fairy land vanish'd with me.

  I take back the all I had given:
    Thy charm, with my folly is o'er;
  From the rank I assign'd thee in heaven
    Descend to thy level once more.

  O grief!--whether here or above,
    Must my soul thus be sever'd from thine?
  Ah, mourn--though I had not thy love--
    The sin that bereaves thee of mine.

1. Trevylyan to Gertrude
2. On the Reperusal of Letters Written in Youth
3. The Pilgrim of the Desert
4. The First Violets
5. To a Withered Tree in June

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