find
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears,
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind,
O'er which all heavily the journeying years
Plod the last sands of life,--where not a flower appears.

IV.

Since my young days of passion--joy, or pain--
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string--
And both may jar: it may be, that in vain
I would essay as I have sung to sing[gj]:
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling;
So that it wean me from the weary dream
Of selfish grief or gladness--so it fling
Forgetfulness around me--it shall seem
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme.

V.

He, who grown aged in this world of woe,
In deeds, not years,[280] piercing the depths of life,
So that no wonder waits him--nor below
Can Love or Sorrow, Fame, Ambition, Strife,
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife
Of silent, sharp endurance--he can tell
Why Thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife
With airy images, and shapes which dwell
Still unimpaired, though old, in the Soul's haunted cell.[gk]

VI.

'Tis to create, and in creating live[281]
A being more intense that we endow[gl]
With form our fancy, gaining as we give
The life we image, even as I do now--
What am I? Nothing: but not so art thou,
Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth,
Invisible but gazing, as I glow--
Mixed with thy spirit, blended with thy birth,
And feeling still with thee in my crushed feelings' dearth.

VII.

Yet must I think less wildly:--I _have_ thought
Too long and darkly, till my brain became,
In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought,
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame:[gm]
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame,
My springs of life were poisoned.[282] 'Tis too late:
Yet am I changed; though still enough the same
In strength to bear what Time can not abate,[gn]
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate.

VIII.

Something too much of this:--but now 'tis past,
And the spell closes with its silent seal--[283]
Long absent HAROLD re-appears at last;
He of the breast which fain no more would feel,[go]