1   Think’st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,      Suffus’d in tears, implore to stay;   And heard unmov’d thy plenteous sighs,      Which said far more than words can say? 2   Though keen the grief thy tears exprest,      When love and hope lay both o’erthrown;   Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast      Throbb’d, with deep sorrow, as thine own. 3   But, when our cheeks with anguish glow’d,      When thy sweet lips were join’d to mine;   The tears that from my eyelids flow’d      Were lost in those which fell from thine. 4   Thou could’st not feel my burning cheek,      Thy gushing tears had quench’d its flame,   And, as thy tongue essay’d to speak,      In sighs alone it breath’d my name. 5   And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,      In vain our fate in sighs deplore;   Remembrance only can remain,      But that, will make us weep the more. 6   Again, thou best belov’d, adieu!      Ah! if thou canst, o’ercome regret,   Nor let thy mind past joys review,      Our only hope is, to forget! To Caroline by George Gordon, Lord Byron (composed: 1805) (From Hours of Idleness - 1807) 1   When I hear that you express an affection so warm,      Ne’er think, my beloved, that I do not believe;   For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm,      And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive. 2   Yet, still, this fond bosom regrets, while adoring,      That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear;   That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring,      Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear; 3   That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining      Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze,   When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining      Prove nature a prey to decay and disease. 4   ’Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o’er my features,      Though I ne’er shall presume to arraign the decree,   Which God has proclaim’d as the fate of his creatures,      In the death which will one day deprive you of me. 5   Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion,      No doubt can the mind of your lover invade;   He worships each look with such faithful devotion,      A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade. 6   But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o’ertake us,      And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy glow,   Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us,      When calling the dead, in earth’s bosom laid low,— 7   Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure,      Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow;   Let us pass round the cup of love’s bliss in full measure,      And quaff the contents as our nectar below. To Caroline by George Gordon, Lord Byron (From Hours of Idleness - 1807) 1   Oh when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow?      Oh when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay?   The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow      But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day. 2   From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses      I blast not the fiends who have hurl’d me from bliss;   For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses      Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this. 3   Was my eye, ’stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright’ning,      Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage   On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning,      With transport my tongue give loose to its rage. 4   But now tears and curses, alike unavailing,      Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight;   Could they view us our sad separation bewailing      Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. 5   Yet still, though we bend with a feign’d resignation,      Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer;   Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation,      In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. 6   Oh! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me,      Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled?   If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee,      Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead.