You who, like the stab of a knife, Entered my plaintive heart; You who, strong as a herd Of demons, came, ardent and adorned, To make your bed and your domain Of my humiliated mind — Infamous bitch to whom I'm bound Like the convict to his chain, Like the stubborn gambler to the game, Like the drunkard to his wine, Like the maggots to the corpse, — Accurst, accurst be you! I begged the swift poniard To gain for me my liberty, I asked perfidious poison To give aid to my cowardice. Alas! both poison and the knife Contemptuously said to me: "You do not deserve to be freed From your accursed slavery,

When fate shall chill, at length, this fevered breast, And calm its cares and passions into rest, Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my dying hour,— If aught may soothe when life resigns her power,— To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell. With this fond dream, methinks, 'twere sweet to die— And here it lingered, here my heart might lie; Here might I sleep, where all my hopes arose, Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose; For ever stretched beneath this mantling shade, Pressed by the turf where once my childhood played; Wrapped by the soil that veils the spot I loved, Mixed with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved; Blest by the tongues that charmed my youthful ear, Mourned by the few my soul acknowledged here; Deplored by those in early days allied, And unremembered by the world beside.

Sonnet 71 No longer mourn for me when I am dead, Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell: Nay if you read this line, remember not, The hand that writ it, for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, If thinking on me then should make you woe. O if (I say) you look upon this verse, When I (perhaps) compounded am with clay, Do not so much as my poor name rehearse; But let your love even with my life decay. Lest the wise world should look into your moan, And mock you with me after I am gone. Sonnet 66 Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill, And simple truth miscalled simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill. Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that to die, I leave my love alone.

Time! on whose arbitrary wing The varying hours must flag or fly, Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring, But drag or drive us on to die--- Hail thou! who on my birth bestowed Those boons to all that know thee known; Yet better I sustain thy load, For now I bear the weight alone. I would not one fond heart should share The bitter moments thou hast given; And pardon thee---since thou couldst spare All that I loved, to peace or Heaven. To them be joy or rest---on me Thy future ills shall press in vain; I nothing owe but years to thee, A debt already paid in pain. Yet even that pain was some relief; It felt, but still forgot thy power: The active agony of grief Retards, but never counts the hour. In joy I've sighed to think thy flight Would soon subside from swift to slow; Thy cloud could overcast the light, But could not add a night to Woe; For then, however drear and dark, My soul was suited to thy sky; One star alone shot forth a spark To prove thee---not Eternity. That beam hath sunk---and now thou art A blank---a thing to count and curse Through each dull tedious trifling part, Which all regret, yet all rehearse. One scene even thou canst not deform--- The limit of thy sloth or speed When future wanderers bear the storm Which we shall sleep too sound to heed. And I can smile to think how weak Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, When all the vengeance thou canst wreak Must fall upon---a nameless stone.

My dark and lovely thing, when you at length lie dead, And sleep beneath a slab of marble black as pitch; And have, for perfumed alcove and seductive bed, Only a rainy cavern and a hollow ditch; When the oppressive stone upon your frightened breast Lets settle all its weight, and on your supple thighs; Restrains your heart from beating, flattens it to rest; Bends down and binds your feet, so roving, so unwise; The tomb, that knows me well and reads my dream aright, (What poet but confides his secret to the tomb?) Will say to you some day during that endless night, 'They fare but ill, vain courtesan, in this cold room, Who bring here no warm memories of true love to keep!' — And like remorse the worm will gnaw you in your sleep.

Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell No God, no demon of severe response Deigns to reply from heaven or from hell Then to my human heart I turn at once: Heart, thou and I are here, sad and alone, Say, why did I laugh? O mortal pain! O darkness! darkness! Forever must I moan To question heaven and hell and heart in vain? Why did I laugh? I know this being's lease My fancy to it's utmost blisses spreads Yet would I on this very midnight cease And all the world's gaudy ensigns see in shreds Verse, fame and beauty are intense indeed But death intenser, death is life's high meed.

Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh, Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky; Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod; With those who, scattered far, perchance deplore, Like me, the happy scenes they knew before: Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill, Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still, Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay, And frequent mused the twilight hours away; Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline, But ah! without the thoughts which then were mine. How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, Invite the bosom to recall the past, And seem to whisper, as the gently swell, 'Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!'

I had a dream: I slept, and I imagined That I was dead and lost in reverie at that; And lovingly, that reverie by kind of magic Had given rise to hope in my depressing heart. What kind of joy I want, I don't know, really. There rings the bell, - and all is clarified; My soul lit up, I understand now clearly, That happiness is in those sounds all right. Those sounds are clearer, more transparent, More joyful than all sounds of the world. I feel that to those sounds I am carried To distant cemetery, my last abode. I feel delight and torment, down and out, I want to rise and breathe as I look back, And on the wave of the exultant sound I'd whirl away and drown in the dark.

Death! where is thy victory? To triumph whilst I die, To triumph whilst thine ebon wing Enfolds my shuddering soul? O Death! where is thy sting? Not when the tides of murder roll, When nations groan, that kings may bask in bliss, Death! canst thou boast a victory such as this-- When in his hour of pomp and power His blow the mightiest murderer gave, Mid Nature’s cries the sacrifice Of millions to glut the grave; When sunk the Tyrant Desolation’s slave; Or Freedom’s life-blood streamed upon thy shrine; Stern Tyrant, couldst thou boast a victory such as mine? To know in dissolution’s void That mortals’ baubles sunk decay; That everything, but Love, destroyed Must perish with its kindred clay,-- Perish Ambition’s crown, Perish her sceptred sway: From Death’s pale front fades Pride’s fastidious frown. In Death’s damp vault the lurid fires decay, That Envy lights at heaven-born Virtue’s beam-- That all the cares subside, Which lurk beneath the tide Of life’s unquiet stream;-- Yes! this is victory! And on yon rock, whose dark form glooms the sky, To stretch these pale limbs, when the soul is fled; To baffle the lean passions of their prey, To sleep within the palace of the dead! Oh! not the King, around whose dazzling throne His countless courtiers mock the words they say, Triumphs amid the bud of glory blown, As I in this cold bed, and faint expiring groan! Tremble, ye proud, whose grandeur mocks the woe Which props the column of unnatural state! You the plainings, faint and low, From Misery’s tortured soul that flow, Shall usher to your fate. Tremble, ye conquerors, at whose fell command The war-fiend riots o’er a peaceful land! You Desolation’s gory throng Shall bear from Victory along To that mysterious strand. Russian Еле зримой улыбкой, лунно-холодной, Вспыхнет ночью безлунной во мгле метеор, И на остров, окутанный бездной бесплодной, Пред победой зари он уронит свой взор. Человек, сохрани непреклонность души Между бурных теней этой здешней дороги, И волнения туч завершатся в тиши, В блеске дивного дня, на лучистом пороге, Ад и рай там оставят тебя, без борьбы, Будешь вольным тогда во вселенной судьбы. Этот мир есть кормилец всего, что мы знаем, Этот мир породил все, что чувствуем мы, И пред смертью - от ужаса мы замираем, Если нервы - не сталь, мы пугаемся тьмы, Смертной тьмы, где - как сон, как мгновенная тайна, Все, что знали мы здесь, что любили случайно. Тайны смерти пребудут, не будет лишь нас, Все пребудет, лишь труп наш, остывши, не дышит, Поразительный слух, тонко созданный глаз Не увидит, о нет, ничего не услышит, В этом мире, где бьются так странно сердца, В здешнем царстве измен, перемен без конца. Кто нам скажет рассказ этой смерти безмолвной? Кто над тем, что грядет, приподнимет покров? Кто представит нам тени, что скрыты, как волны, В лабиринтной глуши многолюдных гробов? Кто вольет нам надежду на то, что настанет, С тем, что здесь, что вот тут, что блеснет и обманет?!