The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 3/To Time

by George Gordon Byron

For works with similar titles, see To Time.

TO TIME.

Time! on whose arbitrary wingThe varying hours must flag or fly,Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring,But drag or drive us on to die—Hail thou! who on my birth bestowedThose boons to all that know thee known;Yet better I sustain thy load,For now I bear the weight alone.I would not one fond heart should shareThe bitter moments thou hast given;And pardon thee—since thou couldst spareAll that I loved, to peace or Heaven. To them be joy or rest—on meThy future ills shall press in vain;I nothing owe but years to thee,A debt already paid in pain.Yet even that pain was some relief;It felt, but still forgot thy power:^{[lower-roman 1]}The active agony of griefRetards, but never counts the hour.^{[lower-roman 2]}In joy I've sighed to think thy flightWould soon subside from swift to slow;Thy cloud could overcast the light,But could not add a night to Woe;For then, however drear and dark,My soul was suited to thy sky;One star alone shot forth a sparkTo prove thee—not Eternity.That beam hath sunk—and now thou artA blank—a thing to count and curseThrough each dull tedious trifling part,Which all regret, yet all rehearse.One scene even thou canst not deform—The limit of thy sloth or speedWhen future wanderers bear the stormWhich we shall sleep too sound to heed.And I can smile to think how weakThine efforts shortly shall be shown,When all the vengeance thou canst wreakMust fall upon—a nameless stone.[MS. M. First published, Childe Harold, 1814 (Seventh Edition).]

Variants

1. —— not confessed thy power.—[MS. M. erased.]
2. —— still forgets the hour.—[MS. M. erased.]