But this is o'er—my pleasant task is done:—[178]

My long-sustaining Friend of many years!

If I do blot thy final page with tears,[179]

Know, that my sorrows have wrung from me none.

But Thou, my young creation! my Soul's child!

Which ever playing round me came and smiled,

And wooed me from myself with thy sweet sight,

Thou too art gone—and so is my delight:40

And therefore do I weep and inly bleed

With this last bruise upon a broken reed.

Thou too art ended—what is left me now?

For I have anguish yet to bear—and how?

I know not that—but in the innate force

Of my own spirit shall be found resource.

I have not sunk, for I had no remorse,

Nor cause for such: they called me mad—and why?

Oh Leonora! wilt not thou reply?[180]

I was indeed delirious in my heart50

To lift my love so lofty as thou art;

But still my frenzy was not of the mind:

I knew my fault, and feel my punishment

Not less because I suffer it unbent.

That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind,

Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind;

But let them go, or torture as they will,

My heart can multiply thine image still;

Successful Love may sate itself away;

The wretched are the faithful; 't is their fate60

To have all feeling, save the one, decay,

And every passion into one dilate,

As rapid rivers into Ocean pour;

But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore.