From ✖ ToXic Noir ✖

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 danger and distress,

( Before Decay's effacing fingers

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers, )

And mark'd the mild angelic air,

The rapture of repose that's there,

The fix'd 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,

Where cold Obstruction's apathy

Appals the gazing mourner's heart,

As if to him it could impart

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;

Yes, but for these and these alone,

Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,

He still might doubt the tyrant's power;

So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd,

The first, last look by death reveal'd !

Such is the aspect of this shore;

'T is Greece, but living Greece no more !

So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,

We start, for soul is wanting there.

Hers is the loveliness in death,

That parts not quite with parting breath;

But beauty with that fearful bloom,

That hue which haunts it to the tomb,

Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay,

The farewell beam of Feeling pass'd away !

Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,

Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth !

[from The Giaour - Lord Byron, 1813]