Lord Byron Poem

To Lesbia

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Lesbia! since far from you I’ve ranged,
Our souls with fond affection glow not;
You say ’tis I, not you, have changed,
I’d tell you why,—but yet I know not.

Your polish’d brow no cares have crost;
And, Lesbia! we are not much older,
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost,
Or told my love, with hope grown bolder

Sixteen was then our utmost age,
Two years have lingering past away, love!
And now new thoughts our minds engage,
At least I feel disposed to stray, love!

‘Tis I that am alone to blame,
I, that am guilty of love’s treason;
Since your sweet breast is still the same,
Caprice must be my only reason.

I do not, love! suspect your truth,
With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not;
Warm was the passion of my youth,
One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.

No, no, my flame was not pretended,
For, Oh! I loved you most sincerely;
And—though our dream at last is ended—
My bosom still esteems you dearly.

No more we meet in yonder bowers;
Absence has made me prone to roving;
But older, firmer hearts than ours
Have found monotony in loving.

Your cheek’s soft bloom is unimpeair’d,
New beauties still are daily bright’ning,
Your eye for conquest beams prepared,
The forge of love’s resistless lightning.

Arm’d thus, to make their bosoms bleed,
Many will throng to sigh like me, love!
More constant they may prove, indeed;
Fonder, alas! they ne’er can be, love!

To Woman
To A Beautiful Quaker


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