Not now he wields, for thy sweet sake,
The sword in his accomplished hand;
Nor grapples like a poisonous snake,
The wrestler on the yellow sand:
The old heroic harp his hand
Consults not now; it can but kiss
The amorous lute's dissolving strings.
Which murmur forth a thousand things
Of banishment from bliss.
VI.
Through thee, my dearest friend and best
Grows harsh, importunate, and grave;
Myself have been his port of rest,
From shipwreck on the yawning wave;
Yet now so high his passions rave
Above lost reason's conquered laws,
That not the traveller ere he slays
The asp, its sting, as he my face
So dreads, and so abhors.
VII.
In snows on rocks, sweet Flower of Gnide,
Thou wert not cradled, wert not born;
She who has not a fault beside,
Should ne'er be signalised for scorn;
Else tremble at the fate forlorn
Of Anaxarete, who spurned
The weeping Iphis from her gate;
Who, scoffing long, relenting late,
Was to a statue turned.
VIII.
Whilst yet soft pity she repelled,
Whilst yet she steeled her heart in pride,
From her friezed window she beheld,
Aghast, the lifeless suicide.
Around his lily neck was tied,
What freed his spirit from her chains,
And purchased with a few short sighs,
For her immortal agonies,
Imperishable pains.
IX.
Then first she felt her bosom bleed
With love and pity—vain distress!
O, what deep rigours must succeed
This first sole touch of tenderness!
Her eyes grow glazed and motionless,
Nailed on his wavering corse; each bone
Hardening in growth, invades her flesh,
Which late so rosy, warm, and fresh,
Now stagnates into stone.
X.