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George Gordon Byron - Away, Away, Ye Notes Of Woe!
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Away, away, ye notes of woe!
   Be silent, thou once soothing strain,
Or I must flee from hence--for, oh!
I dare not trust those sounds again.
To me they speak of brighter days
   But lull the chords, for now, alas!
I must not think, I may not gaze,
   On what I am--on what I was.
 
The voice that made those sounds more sweet
   Is hush`d, and all their charms are fled
And now their softest notes repeat 
    A dirge, an anthem o`er the dead!
Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee,
    Beloved dust! since dust thou art;
And all that once was harmony
    Is worse than discord to my heart!
 
`Tis silent all!--but on my ear
    The well remember`d echoes thrill;
I hear a voice I would not hear,             
    A voice that now might well be still:
Yet oft my doubting soul `twill shake;
    Even slumber owns its gentle tone,
Till consciousness will vainly wake
   To listen, though the dream be flown.
 
Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep, 
   Thou art but now a lovely dream;
A star that trembled o`er the deep,
   Then turn`d from earth its tender beam.
But he who through life`s dreary way
   Must pass, when heaven is veil`d in wrath, 
Will long lament the vanish`d ray
   That scatter`d gladness o`er his path.
 
December 6, 1811.
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