THE LAST.
Πανυστατον δη, κ'ουποτ' α θις υστερον.
Soph. Ajax.
I
It is the lute, the same poor lute;—
Why do you turn away?
To-morrow let its chords be mute,
But they must sound to-day.
The bark is manned, the seamen throng
Around the creaking mast:
Lady, you heard my first love song,—
Hear now my last!
II
Sigh not!—I knew the star must set,
I knew the rose must fade;
And if I never can forget,
I never will upbraid;
I would not have you aught but glad,
Where'er my lot is cast;
And if my sad words make you sad,
They are the last!
III
No more, no more, oh! never more
Will look or tone of mine
Bring clouds that ivory forehead o'er,
Or dim that dark eye's shine;
Look out, dear Lady, from your tower;
The wave rolls deep and vast:
Oh, would to God this bitter hour
Might be my last!
IV
I think that you will love me still,
Though far our fates may be;
And that your heart will fondly thrill
When strangers ask of me;
My praise will be your proudest theme
When these dark days are past;
If this be all an idle dream,
It is my last!
V
And now let one kind look be mine,
And clasp this slender chain;
Fill up once more the cup of wine,
Put on my ring again;
And wreathe this wreath around your head,
(Alas, it withers fast!)
And whisper, when its flowers are dead,
It was the last!
VI
Thus from your presence forth I go,
A lost and lonely man;
Reckless alike of weal or woe,
Heaven's benison or ban:
He who has known the tempest's worst
May bare him to the blast;—
Blame not these tears; they are the first,—
Are they the last?
April 2, 1829.
