Sieben Lieder nach George Lord Byron , opus 323

'Tis done! -- I saw [it]1 in my dreams;
No more with Hope the future beams; 
  My days of happiness are few: 
Chill'd by misfortune's wintry blast, 
My dawn of life is overcast; 
  Love Hope, and Joy, alike adieu! 
  Would I could add Remembrance too!

Breeze of the night in gentler sighs
⁠More softly murmur o'er the billow;
For Slumber seals my Fanny's eyes,
⁠And Peace must never shun her pillow.

Or breathe those sweet Æolian strains
⁠Stolen from celestial spheres above,
To charm her ear while some remains,
⁠And soothe her soul to dreams of love.

But Breeze of night again forbear,
⁠In softest murmurs only sigh;
Let not a Zephyr's pinion dare
⁠To lift those auburn locks on high.

Chill is thy Breath, thou breeze of night!
⁠Oh! ruffle not those lids of Snow;
For only Morning's cheering light
⁠May wake the beam that lurks below.

Blest be that lip and azure eye!
⁠Sweet Fanny, hallowed be thy Sleep!
Those lips shall never vent a sigh,
⁠Those eyes may never wake to weep.

I saw thee weep - the big bright tear
Came o'er that eye of blue;
And then methought it did appear
A violet dropping dew --
I saw thee smile  -- the sapphire's [blaze]1
Beside thee ceased to shine;
It could not match the living rays
That fill'd that glance of thine.

As clouds from yonder sun receive
A deep and mellow dye,
Which scarce the shade of coming eve
Can banish from the sky --
Those smiles unto the moodiest mind
Their own pure joy impart;
Their sunshine leaves a glow behind
That lightens o'er the heart.

Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star!
Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far!
That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel,
How like art thou to joy remember'd well!
So gleams the past, the light of other days,
Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays;
A nightbeam Sorrow watcheth to behold,
Distinct, but distant - clear - but, oh how cold!

There be none of Beauty's daughters
  With a magic like thee;
And like music on the waters
  Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The [charmèd]1 ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:

And the midnight moon is weaving
  Her bright chain o'er the deep;
Whose breast is gently heaving
  As an infant's asleep:
So the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

Bright be the place of thy soul!
  No lovelier spirit than thine
E'er burst from its mortal control,
  In the orbs of the blessed to shine.

On earth thou wert all but divine,
  As thy soul shall immortally be;
And our sorrow may cease to repine,
  When we know that thy God is with thee.

Light be the turf of thy tomb!
  May its verdure like emeralds be:
There should not be the shadow of gloom
  In aught that reminds us of thee.

Young flowers and an evergreen tree
  May spring from the spot of thy rest;
But not cypress nor yew let us see,
  For why should we mourn for the blest?

A spirit passed before me: I beheld
The face of Immortality unveiled —
Deep Sleep came down on every eye save mine —
And there it stood, — all formless — but divine:
Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake;
And as my damp hair stiffened, thus it spake;

"Is man more just than God? Is man more pure
Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure?
Creatures of clay — vain dwellers in the dust!
The moth survives you, and are ye more just?
Things of a day! you wither ere the night,
Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light!"