Well! Thou Art Happy.

A poem by Lord George Gordon Byron


Well! thou art happy, and I feel
That I should thus be happy too;
For still my heart regards thy weal
Warmly, as it was wont to do.


Thy husband's blest - and 'twill impart
Some pangs to view his happier lot:
But let them pass - Oh! how my heart
Would hate him if he loved thee not!


When late I saw thy favourite child,
I thought my jealous heart would break;
But when the unconscious infant smil'd,
I kiss'd it for its mother's sake.


I kiss'd it, - and repress'd my sighs
Its father in its face to see;
But then it had its mother's eyes,
And they were all to love and me.


Mary, adieu! I must away:
While thou art blest I'll not repine;
But near thee I can never stay;
My heart would soon again be thine.


I deem'd that Time, I deem'd that Pride,
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame;
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,
My heart in all, - save hope, - the same.


Yet was I calm: I knew the time
My breast would thrill before thy look;
But now to tremble were a crime -
We met, - and not a nerve was shook.


I saw thee gaze upon my face,
Yet meet with no confusion there:
One only feeling couldst thou trace;
The sullen calmness of despair.


Away! away! my early dream
Remembrance never must awake:
Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream?
My foolish heart be still, or break.

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