[First published, Childe Harold, 1812 (4to).]
ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM FREE.[ai]
1.
One struggle more, and I am free
From pangs that rend my heart in twain;[aj]
One last long sigh to Love and thee,
Then back to busy life again.
It suits me well to mingle now
With things that never pleased before:[ak]
Though every joy is fled below,
What future grief can touch me more?[al]
2.
Then bring me wine, the banquet bring;
Man was not formed to live alone:
I'll be that light unmeaning thing
That smiles with all, and weeps with none.
It was not thus in days more dear,
It never would have been, but thou[am]
Hast fled, and left me lonely here;
Thou'rt nothing,—all are nothing now.
3.
In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!
The smile that Sorrow fain would wear
But mocks the woe that lurks beneath,
Like roses o'er a sepulchre.
Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though Pleasure fires the maddening soul,
The Heart,—the Heart is lonely still!