Lord Byron's Poems

Early Poems: To M.S.G


Whene'er I view those lips of thine,

Their hue invites my fervent kiss;

Yet, I forego that bliss divine,

Alas! it were - unhallow'd bliss.


Whene'er I dream of that pure breast,

How could I dwell upon its snows!

Yet, is the daring wish represt,

For that, - would banish its repose.


A glance from thy soul-searching eye

Can raise with hope, depress with fear;

Yet, I conceal my love, - and why?

I would not force a painful tear.


I ne'er have told my love, yet thou

Hast seen my ardent flame too well;

And shall I plead my passion now,

To make thy bosom's heaven a hell?


No! for thou never canst be mine,

United by the priest's decree:

By any ties but those divine,

Mine, my belov'd, thou ne'er shalt be.


Then let the secret fire consume,

Let it consume, thou shalt not know:

With joy I court a certain doom,

Rather than spread its guilty glow.


I will not ease my tortur'd heart,

By driving dove-ey'd peace from thine;

Rather than such a sting impart,

Each thought presumptuous I resign.


Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave

More than I here shall dare to tell;

Thy innocence and mine to save, -

I bid thee now a last farewell.


Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair

And hope no more thy soft embrace;

Which to obtain, my soul would dare,

All, all reproach, but thy disgrace.


At least from guilt shall thou be free,

No matron shall thy shame reprove;

Though cureless pangs may prey on me,

No martyr shall thou be to love.