10.
But that which keepeth us apart is not
Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth,
But the distraction of a various lot,
As various as the climates of our birth.
11.
A stranger loves the Lady of the land,[1]
Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood
Is all meridian, as if never fanned
By the black wind that chills the polar flood.[2]
12.
My blood is all meridian; were it not,
I had not left my clime, nor should I be,[3]
In spite of tortures, ne'er to be forgot,
A slave again of love,—at least of thee.
13.
'Tis vain to struggle—let me perish young—
Live as I lived, and love as I have loved;
To dust if I return, from dust I sprung,
And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved.
[First published, Conversations of Lord Byron, 1824, 4to, pp. 24-26.]
SONNET ON THE NUPTIALS OF THE MARQUIS ANTONIO CAVALLI WITH THE COUNTESS CLELIA RASPONI OF RAVENNA.[4]
A noble Lady of the Italian shore
Lovely and young, herself a happy bride,
- ↑ A stranger loves a lady ——.—[Medwin.]
- ↑ By the bleak wind——.—[Medwin.]
- ↑ I had not left my clime;—I shall not be.—[Medwin.]
- ↑ I wrote this sonnet (after tearing the first) on being repeatedly urged to do so by the Countess G. [It was at the house of the Marquis Cavalli, uncle to the countess, that Byron appeared in the part of a fully-recognized "Cicisbeo"—See letter to Hoppner, December 31, 1819, Letters, 1900, iv. 393.]
