The Revival

I thought that in me utterlyIn life's most fragrant flowerThe sweet woes had lost power,Born in my early years.The sweet woes and the tenderestSighs of the heart profound,All things whereby a groundFor joy in life appears.

How many tears and murmuringsDid from my new state flow,When I my heart of snowDiscovered void of pain!Gone was the wonted agony,And love I could not hold,And this my bosom coldGave sighing up as vain.

I wept that life so desolateAnd waste for me was made,The earth in gloom arrayed,Closed in eternal frost;The day forlorn, the taciturnNight more obscure and lone;For me no kind moon shone;The stars in Heaven were lost.

But of that grief the originIn old affection lay;Within my bosom's swayMy heart was still alive.Yet for the wonted imagesThe weary fancy sighed;My sorrow's boundless tideWith pain did ever strive.

Ere long in me that agonyOf pain was wholly spent,And further to lamentI had no courage left.I lay all senseless and amazed,I did not ask for balm;As though in death's last calm,My heart in twain was cleft.

I was from him how different,In whom did ardours shine,Who errors all divineFed in his soul of yore!The early swallow vigilant,Who near the windows gaySalutes the rising day,Moved this my heart no more;

Nor did the Autumn pale and sereWhere lonely I might dwell;Nor did the evening bell;Nor sun that sought the main.In vain I saw bright HesperusShine in celestial round,In vain the valleys soundWith nightingale's sweet pain.

And ye, O eyes of tendernessAnd glances full of joy,Ye, unto lovers coyFirst love that never dies;And snowy hand of whitest graceThat liest in my own;In vain your power is shown,My gloomy mood ne'er flies.

Bereft of every happiness,Sad, but not tempest-torn,I was not all forlorn,My brow became serene.I should have murmured for the endOf this my life of woe,If in me long agoDead had desire not been.

As in old age decrepitudeMakes life disprized and bare,My years of youth most fairThus, thus alone were spent;'Twas thus the days ineffableThou, O my heart, didst live,Days that short joyaunce give,By Heaven to us lent.

Who the obscure, ingloriousRepose bids me now miss?What virtue new is this,This that in me I find?Emotions sweet, imaginingsErroneous and sublime,Are ye not for all timeThe exiles of my mind?

Are ye in truth the only rayOf these my sable years,The loves I lost with tearsIn a more tender age?Though on the sky or verdant meadsOr where I list, I gaze,Grief doth my soul amaze,And yet delights assuage.

And with my musing sympathizeThe plains, the woods and hills;My heart doth hear the rills,And murmur of the sea.Who after such forgetfulnessGives me the gift of tears?How is it the earth appearsSo changed and new to me?

Perchance fair Hope, O weary heart,Hath granted thee a smile?Ah! Hope, so full of guile,I'll ne'er again behold.My fond delusions and desiresNone else than Nature gave,My native ardour braveGrief did in bondage hold,

Though not destroy: 'twas unsubduedBy misery and fate,Nor did it death awaitFrom Truth's unhallowed gaze.To my divine imaginingI know that she is strange;I know that Nature's rangeLies far from Mercy's ways;

That not for weal solicitousShe is, for life alone;She bids us live to groan,For nothing else she cares.I know that the unfortunateNo pity find below,That from the sight of woeMen hurry unawares;

That this our age so reprobateScorns virtue and renown;That glory fails to crownThe noble, learned toil.And you, ye eyes so tremulous,Ye glances all divine,I know you idly shine,And far from love recoil.

There is no wondrous, intimateAffection in your gaze;No spark ere long to blaze,Lies in that snowy breast;For it doth mock the tenderestEmotion and desire;And a celestial fireBy deep scorn is distrest.

And yet in me I feel reviveThe dear illusions known:My soul looks on its ownSensations with surprise.From thee, my heart, this last and fairSpirit and inborn fire,All comforts in my direGrief, but from thee arise.

I feel my spirit is not dowered,Though lofty, sweet, and pure,By Nature, Fortune's lure,The world, or loveliness:But if thou livest, O, ill-starred,And yieldest not to Fate,I'll ne'er as cruel hateWho gave me life's distress.