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Are words! I thought never to speak again,
Not even in secret,- not to my own heart-
But from my lips the unwilling accents start,
And from my pen the words flow as I write,
Dazzling my eyes with scalding tears ...my

sight
Is dim to see that charactered in vain
On this unfeeling leaf which burns the brain
And eats into it ... blotting all things fair 480
And wise and good which time had written

there.

• Those who inflict must suffer, for they see The work of their own hearts, and this must be Our chastisement or recompense-0 child ! I would that thine were like to be more mild For both our wretched sakes. . . for thine the

most Who feelest already all that thou hast lost Without the power to wish it thine again; And as slow years pass, a funereal train Each with the ghost of some lost hope or friend Following it like its shadow, wilt thou bend 491 No thought on my dead memory ?

• Alas, love! Fear me not ... against thee I would not move A finger in despite. Do I not live That thou mayst have less bitter cause to grieve? I give thee tears for scorn and love for hate; And that thy lot may be less desolate Than his on whom thou tramplest, I refrain From that sweet sleep which medicines all pain Then, when thou speakest of me, never say He could forgive not. Here I cast away All human passions, all revenge, all pride;

I think, speak, act no ill; I do but hide
Under these words like embers every spark
Of that which has consumed me-quick and

dark
The grave is yawning ... as its roof shall cover
My limbs with dust and worms under and over,
So let Oblivion hide this grief ... the air
Closes upon my accents, as despair
Upon my heart—let death upon despair!' 510

He ceased, and overcome leant back awhile, Then rising, with a melancholy smile Went to a sofa, and lay down, and slept A heavy sleep, and in his dreams he wept And muttered some familiar name, and we Wept without shame in his society. I think I never was impressed so much; The man who were not, must have lacked a

touch Of human nature ... then we lingered not, Although our argument was quite forgot, 520 But calling the attendants, went to dine At Maddalo's; yet neither cheer nor wine Could give us spirits, for we talked of him And nothing else, till daylight made stars dim; And we agreed his was some dreadful ill Wrought on him boldly, yet unspeakable, By a dear friend; some deadly change in love Of one vowed deeply which he dreamed not of; For whose sake he, it seemed, had fixed a blot Of falsehood on his mind which flourished not But in the light of all-beholding truth; 531 And having stamped this canker on his youth She had abandoned him—and how much more Might be his woe, we guessed not-he had store Of friends and fortune once, as we could guess From his nice habits and his gentleness;

These were now lost ... it were a grief indeed
If he had changed one unsustaining reed
For all that such a man might else adorn. 539
The colours of his mind seemed yet unworn;
For the wild language of his grief was high,
Such as in measure were called poetry,
And I remember one remark which then
Maddalo made. He said: “Most wretched men
Are cradled into poetry by wrong,
“ They learn in suffering what they teach in

song."

If I had been an unconnected man, I, from this moment, should have formed some

plan Never to leave sweet Venice,—for to me It was delight to ride by the lone sea; 550 And then, the town is silent-one may write Or read in gondolas by day or night, Having the little brazen lamp alight, Unseen, uninterrupted; books are there, Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair Which were twin-born with poetry, and all We seek in towns, with little to recall Regrets for the green country. I might sit In Maddalo's great palace, and his wit 559 And subtle talk would cheer the winter night And make me know myself, and the fire-light Would flash upon our faces, till the day . Might dawn and make me wonder at my stay: But I had friends in London too: the chief Attraction here, was that I sought relief From the deep tenderness that maniac wrought Within me-'twas perhaps an idle thoughtBut I imagined that if day by day I watched him, and but seldom went away, And studied all the beatings of his heart 570

With zeal, as men study some stubborn art
For their own good, and could by patience find
An entrance to the caverns of his mind,
I might reclaim him from this dark estate:
In friendships I had been most fortunate-
Yet never saw I one whom I would call
More willingly my friend; and this was all
Accomplished not; such dreams of baseless good
Oft come and go in crowds and solitude
And leave no trace—but what I now designed
Made for long years impression on my mind. 581
The following morning, urged by my affairs,
I left bright Venice.

After many years And many changes I returned; the name Of Venice, and its aspect, was the same; But Maddalo was travelling far away Among the mountains of Armenia. His dog was dead. His child had now become A woman; such as it has been my doom To meet with few, a wonder of this earth 590 Where there is little of transcendant worth, Like one of Shakespeare's women: kindly she, And with a manner beyond courtesy, Received her father's friend ; and when I asked Of the lorn maniac, she her memory tasked And told as she had heard the mournful tale. “ That the poor sufferer's health began to fail Two years from my departure, but that then “ The lady who had left him came again. 599 “ Her mien had been imperious, but she now “ Looked meek—perhaps remorse had brought

her low. “ Her coming made him better, and they stayed “ Together at my father's—for I played “ As I remember with the lady's shawlI might be six years old—but after all

“ She left him”... “Why, her heart must

have been tough: “ How did it end?” “And was not this enough? “ They met—they parted "__"Child, is there

no more? ;, “ Something within that interval which bore “ The stamp of why they parted, how they met: “ Yet if thine agèd eyes disdain to wet 611 “ Those wrinkled cheeks with youth's remem

bered tears, “ Ask me no more, but let the silent years “ Be closed and cered over their memory As yon mute marble where their corpses lie.” I urged and questioned still, she told me how All happened—but the cold world shall not

know.

i The following cancelled passages of Julian and Maddalo evidently belong to an early stage in the poem's developement. The first fragment must have been near the opening :“What think you the dead are ?” “Why, dust and

clay,
What should they be?" "'Tis the last hour of day.
Look on the west, how beautiful it is
Vaulted with radiant vapours! The deep bliss
Of that unutterable light has made
The edges of that cloud

fade
Into a hue, like some harmonious thought,
Wasting itself on that which it had wrought,
Till it dies

and between The light hues of the tender, pure, serene, And infinite tranquility of heaven.

Aye, beautiful ! but when not....' The remaining three lines would presumably have been in the maniac's soliloquy :

Perhaps the only comfort which remains
Is the unheeded clanking of my chains,
The which I make, and call it melody.-ED.

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