Edwardsville Spectator

POETRY.

TO JESSY—BY LORD BYRON

[The following unpublished stanzas were addressed by Lord Byron to his Lady, a few months before their separation.]

There is mystic thread of life
So dearly wreath'd with mine alone,
That destiny's relentless knife
At once must sever both or none.

There is a form on which these eyes
Have often gazed with fond delight—
By day that form their joy supplies,
And dreams restore it through the night.

There is a voice whose tones inspire
Such thrills of rapture in my breast—
I would not hear a seraph choir,
Unless that voice could join the rest.

There is a face whose blushes tell
Affection's tale upon the cheek—
But, pallid and one fond farewell
Proclaims more love than words can speak.

There is a lip which mine has prest
And none had ever prest before:
It vow'd to make me sweetly blest.
And mine—mine only prest it more.

There is a bosom—all my own—
Hath pillow'd oft this aching head;
A mouth which smiles on me alone,
An eye whose tears with mine are shed.

There are two hearts whose movements thrill
In unison so closely sweet,
That, pulse to pulse responsive still
They both must heave—or cease to beat.

There are two souls whose equal flow
In gentle streams so calmly run,
That when they part—they part!—ah no!
They cannot part—those souls are one.