Fare thee well! and if forever, Still forever, fare thee well: Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. - Lord Byron

Jack was embarrassed — never hero more,
And as he knew not what to say, he swore.

Oh pleasure, you're indeed a pleasant thing, / Although one must be damned for you no doubt. / I make a resolution every spring / Of reformation, ere the year run out.

XXII. By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest The indistinctness of the suffering breast; Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one, 1810 Which seeks from all the refuge found in none; No words suffice the secret soul to show, For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe. On Conrad’s stricken soul Exhaustion prest, And Stupor almost lulled it into rest; So feeble now — his mother’s softness crept To those wild eyes, which like an infant’s wept: It was the very weakness of his brain, Which thus confessed without relieving pain. None saw his trickling tears — perchance, if seen, 1820 That useless flood of grief had never been: Nor long they flowed — he dried them to depart, In helpless — hopeless — brokenness of heart: The Sun goes forth, but Conrad’s day is dim: And the night cometh — ne’er to pass from him. There is no darkness like the cloud of mind, On Grief’s vain eye — the blindest of the blind! Which may not — dare not see — but turns aside To blackest shade — nor will endure a guide!