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‘How vain
Are words! I thought never to speak again,
Not even in secret,–not to mine own heart–
But from my lips the unwilling accents start, 475
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–O child!
I would that thine were like to be more mild 485
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 490
Following it like its shadow, wilt thou bend
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? 495
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 500
“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 505
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 515
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 525
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 530
But in the light of all-beholding truth;
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 535
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.
The colours of his mind seemed yet unworn; 540
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, 545
They learn in suffering what they teach in song.’