THE GIAOUR.
89
The first dark day of Nothingness,70
The last of Danger and Distress,
(Before Decay's effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where Beauty lingers,)
And marked the mild angelic air,
The rapture of Repose that's there,[lower-roman 1]
The fixed yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
And—but for that sad shrouded eye.
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now.
And but for that chill, changeless brow,80
The last of Danger and Distress,
(Before Decay's effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where Beauty lingers,)
And marked the mild angelic air,
The rapture of Repose that's there,[lower-roman 1]
The fixed yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
And—but for that sad shrouded eye.
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now.
And but for that chill, changeless brow,80
Variants
- ↑ And marked the almost dreaming air,
Which speaks the sweet repose that's there.
[MS. of Fair Copy.]
particulars from the Fair Copy, which, with the exception of the passages marked as vars. i. (p. 89) and i. (p. 90), is the same as the text. It ran as follows:—
He who hath bent him o'er the dead
Ere the first day of death is fled—
The first dark day of Nothingness
The last of doom and of distress—
Before Corruption's cankering fingers
Hath tinged the hue where Beauty lingers
And marked the soft and settled air
That dwells with all but Spirit there
The fixed yet tender lines that speak
Of Peace along the placid cheek
And—but for that sad shrouded eye
That fires not—pleads not—weeps not—now—
And but for that pale chilling brow
Whose touch tells of Mortality
And curdles to the Gazer's heart
As if to him it could impart
The doom he only looks upon—
Yes but for these and these alone,
A moment—yet—a little hour
We still might doubt the Tyrant's power.
Ere the first day of death is fled—
The first dark day of Nothingness
The last of doom and of distress—
Before Corruption's cankering fingers
Hath tinged the hue where Beauty lingers
And marked the soft and settled air
That dwells with all but Spirit there
The fixed yet tender lines that speak
Of Peace along the placid cheek
And—but for that sad shrouded eye
That fires not—pleads not—weeps not—now—
And but for that pale chilling brow
Whose touch tells of Mortality
And curdles to the Gazer's heart
As if to him it could impart
The doom he only looks upon—
Yes but for these and these alone,
A moment—yet—a little hour
We still might doubt the Tyrant's power.
Notes
impression of the last convulsions."—Mysteries of Udolpho, by Mrs. Ann Radcliffe, 1794, ii. 29.]