The Venetian Bracelet, The Lost Pleiad, A History of the Lyre, and Other Poems

Frontispiece

THE

VENETIAN BRACELET,

THE LOST PLEIAD,

A HISTORY OF THE LYRE,

AND OTHER POEMS.

BY L. E. L.

AUTHOR OF THE IMPROVISATRICE, THE TROUBADOUR, AND THE GOLDEN VIOLET.

"And my soul felt her destiny divine."—Wordsworth.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, REES, ORME, BROWN, AND GREEN, PATERNOSTER-ROW,

1829

London: Printed by A. & R. Spottiswoode, New-Steet-Square.

PREFACE.

Difference of their own abilities, and fear, which heightens the anxiety for public favour, are pleas usually urged by the youthful writer: may I, while venturing for the first time to speak of myself, be permitted to say they far more truly belong to one who has had experience of both praise and censure. The feelings which attended the publication of the "Improvisatrice" are very different from those that accompany the present volume. I believe I then felt little beyond hope, vague as the timidity which subdued it, and that excitement which every author must know: now mine is a "farther looking hope;" and the timidity which apprehended the verdict of others, is now deepened by distrust of my own powers. Or, to claim my poetical privilege, and express my meaning by a simile, I should say, I am no longer one who springs forward in the mere energy of exercise and enjoyment; but rather like the Olympian racer, who strains his utmost vigour, with the distant goal and crown in view. I have devoted my whole life to one object: in society I have but sought the material for solitude. I can imagine but one interest in existence,—that which has filled my past, and haunts my future,—the perhaps vain desire, when I am nothing, of leaving one of those memories at once a good and a glory. Believing as I do in the great and excellent influence of poetry, may I hazard the expression of what I have myself sometimes trusted to do? A highly-cultivated state of society must ever have for concomitant evils, that selfishness, the result of indolent indulgence; and that heartlessness attendant on refinement, which too often hardens while it polishes. Aware that to elevate I must first soften, and that if I wished to purify I must first touch, I have ever endeavoured to bring forward grief, disappointment, the fallen leaf, the faded flower, the broken heart, and the early grave. Surely we must be less worldly, less interested, from this sympathy with the sorrow in which our unselfish feelings alone can take part. And now a few words on a subject, where the variety of the opinions offered have left me somewhat in the situation of the prince in the fairy tale, who, when in the vicinity of the magic fountain, found himself so distracted by the multitude of voices that directed his way, as to be quite incapable of deciding which was the right path. I allude to the blame and eulogy which have been equally bestowed on my frequent choice of Love as my source of song. I can only say, that for a woman, whose influence and whose sphere must be in the affections, what subject can be more fitting than one which it is her peculiar province to refine, spiritualise, and exalt? I have always sought to paint it self- denying, devoted, and making an almost religion of its truth; and I must add, that such as I would wish to draw her, woman actuated by an attachment as intense as it is true, as pure as it is deep, is not only more admirable as a heroine, but also in actual life, than one whose idea of love is that of light amusement, or at worst of vain mortification. With regard to the frequent application of my works to myself, considering that I sometimes pourtrayed love unrequited, then betrayed, and again destroyed by death—may I hint the conclusions are not quite logically drawn, as assuredly the same mind cannot have suffered such varied modes of misery. However, if I must have an unhappy passion, I can only console myself with my own perfect unconsciousness of so great a misfortune. I now leave the following Poems to their fate: they must speak for themselves. I could but express my anxiety, an anxiety only increased by a popularity beyond my most sanguine dreams.

With regard to those whose former praise encouraged, their best recompense is the happiness they bestowed. And to those whose differing opinion expressed itself in censure, I own, after the first chagrin was past, I never laid down a criticism by which I did not benefit, or trust to benefit. I will conclude by apostrophising the hopes and fears they excited, in the words of the Mexican king—"Ye have been the feathers of my wings."

Contents.

Page

The Venetian Bracelet | 1

The Lost Pleiad | 51

A History of the Lyre | 85

The Ancestress | 117

Poetical Portraits: | |

No. I. | 175

No. II. | 179

No. III. | 182

No. IV. | 188

No. V. | 190

No. VI. | 196

Miscellaneous Poems: | |

The Neglected One | 201

A Night in May | 209

Warning | 218

The Nameless Grave | 225

Fantasies, inscribed to T. Crofton Croker, Esq. | 229

Revenge | 232

A Summer Day | 236

The Wreath | 239

Song | 242

The Dying Child | 244

A Summer Evening’s Tale | 249

Lines of Life | 265

The Battle Field | 275

New Year’s Eve | 278

Song | 284

Stanzas to the Author of "Mont Blanc," "Ada," &c. | 287

The Mountain Grave | 295

Painted by H. Howard R. A. | Engraved by W. Finden | She sought the fountain and flung there The crown that bound her raven hair; The starry crown, the sparkles died, Darkening within its fated tide. She sinks by that lone wave. Lost Pleiad. p.81 | Published by Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown & Green, Octr. 5, 1829

The Venetian Bracelet

THE

VENETIAN BRACELET.

Those subtle poisons which made science crime, And knowledge a temptation; could we doubt One moment the great curse upon our world, We must believe, to find that even good May thus be turn'd to evil.

THE

VENETIAN BRACELET.

Another tale of thine! fair Italie— What makes my lute, my heart, aye turn to thee? I do not know thy language,—that is still Like the mysterious music of the rill;— And neither have I seen thy cloudless sky, Where the sun hath his immortality; Thy cities crown'd with palaces, thy halls Where art's great wonders light the storied walls; Thy fountains' silver sweep, thy groves, where dwell The rose and orange, summer's citadel;

Thy songs that rise at twilight on the air, Wedding the breath thy thousand flowers sigh there; Thy tales of other times, thy marble shrines, Lovely though fallen,—for the ivy twines Its graceful wreath around each ruin'd fane, As still in some shape beauty would remain. I know them not, yet, Italie, thou art The promised land that haunts my dreaming heart. Perchance it is as well thou art unknown: I could not bear to lose what I have thrown Of magic round thee,—but to find in thee What hitherto I still have found in all— Thou art not stamp'd with that reality Which makes our being's sadness, and its thrall! But now, whenever I am mix'd too much With worldly natures till I feel as such;—

(For these are as the waves that turn to stone, Till feelings keep their outward show alone)— When wearied by the vain, chill'd by the cold, Impatient of society's set mould— The many meannesses, the petty cares, The long avoidance of a thousand snares, The lip that must be chain'd, the eye so taught To image all but its own actual thought;— (Deceit is this world's passport: who would dare, However pure the breast, to lay it bare?)— When worn, my nature struggling with my fate, Checking my love, but, oh, still more my hate;— (Why should I love? flinging down pearl and gem To those who scorn, at least care not for them: Why should I hate? as blades in scabbards melt, I have no power to make my hatred felt;

Or, I should say, my sorrow:—I have borne So much unkindness, felt so lone, so lorn, I could but weep, and tears may not redress, They only fill the cup of bitterness)— Wearied of this, upon what eager wings My spirit turns to thee, and bird-like flings Its best, its breath, its spring, and song o'er thee, My lute's enchanted world, fair Italie. To me thou art a vision half divine, Of myriad flowers lit up with summer shine: The passionate rose, the violet's Tyrian dye, The wild bee loves them not more tenderly; Of vineyards like Aladdin's gem set hall, Fountains like fairy ones with music's fall; Of sorrows, too; for e'en on this bright soil Grief has its shadow, and care has its coil,

But e'en amid its darkness and its crime, Touch'd with the native beauty of such clime, Till wonder rises with each gushing tear:— And hath the serpent brought its curse even here? Such is the tale that haunts me: I would fain Wake into pictured life the heart's worst pain; And seek I if pale cheek and tearful eye Answer the notes that wander sadly by. And say not this is vain, in our cold world, Where feelings sleep like wither'd leaves upfurl'd: 'Tis much to wash them with such gentle rain, Calling their earlier freshness back again. The heart of vanity, the head of pride, Touch'd by such sorrow, are half purified; And we rise up less selfish, having known Part in deep grief, yet that grief not our own.

I.

They stood beside the river, that young pair— She with her eyes cast down, for tears were there, Glittering upon the eyelash, though unshed; He murmuring those sweet words so often said By parting lover, still as fondly spoken As his could be, the only ones not broken. The girl was beautiful; her forehead high Was white as are the marble fanes that lie On Grecian lands, making a fitting shrine Where the mind spoke; the arch'd and raven line Was very proud, but that was soften'd now,— Only sad tenderness was on her brow. She wore the peasant dress,—the snowy lawn Closely around her whiter throat was drawn,

A crimson bodice, and the skirt of blue So short, the fairy ankle was in view; The arm was hidden by the long loose sleeve, But the small hand was snow; around her hair A crimson net, such as the peasants weave, Bound the rich curls, and left the temples bare. She wore the rustic dress, but there was not Aught else in her that mark'd the rustic's lot: Her bearing seem'd too stately, though subdued By all that makes a woman's gentlest mood— The parting hour of love. And there they leant, Mirror'd below in the clear element That roll'd along, with wild shrubs overhung, And colour'd blossoms that together clung— That peasant girl, that high-born cavalier, Whispering those gentle words so sweet to hear,

And answer'd by flush'd cheek, and downcast eye, And roselip parted, with half smile, half sigh. Young, loving, and beloved,—these are brief words, And yet they touch on all the finer chords, Whose music is our happiness: the tone May die away and be no longer known In the harsh wisdom brought by after years, Lost in that worldliness which scars and sears, And makes the misery of life's troubled scene;— Still it is much to think that it has been. They loved with such deep tenderness and truth,— Feelings forsaking us as does our youth,— They did not dream that love like theirs could die, And such belief half makes eternity. Yes, they were parting; still the fairy hope Had in their clear horizon ample scope

For her sweet promises, without the showers That are their comrades in life's after hours. They parted trustingly; they did not know The vanity of youthful trust and vow; And each believed the other,—for each read In their own hearts the truth of what each said. The dews are drying rapidly:—away, Young warrior! those far banners chide thy stay. Hark! the proud trumpet swells upon the wind,— His first of fields, he must not be behind. The maiden's cheek flush'd crimson, and her eye Flash'd as the martial music floated by. She saw him spring upon his snow-white steed,— It dash'd across the plain with arrowy speed. The beat of heart, the flush of cheek, are gone, Amenaïde but felt she was alone.

The vow which soothed her, and the hope which cheer'd, The pride which nerved, with him had disappear'd. "Leoni, dear Leoni!"—'twas in vain:— The mocking echo answer'd her again. —It is deep wretchedness, this passionate burst Of parting's earlier grief, but not the worst; It is the lingering days of after care, That try the wasted spirit most to bear. Now listless, languid, as the world had left Nothing to interest, of him bereft; Now lull'd by opiate thoughts that but restore The mind its tone, to make it sink the more; Now fever'd by anxiety, for rife Are fears when fancy calls them into life;

And then that nameless dread of coming woe, Which only those who've felt it e'er can know: These still have been in absence, still will be, And these, Amenaïde, were all for thee. The valley in a summer twilight lay— That fairy confine of the night and day— When leant Amenaïde behind the shade The fragrant shrubs around her lattice made, 'Scaped from her nurse, and each consoling phrase Sinking the spirit that it fain would raise. The room was small and dark; but when the wind Moved the green branches of the myrtle-blind, A crimson beauty wooed the maiden's eye:— She look'd and saw, where, dark against the sky, His father's battlements rose on the air;— Alas, how haughty and how high they were!

An orphan she, a rustic's nursling child, Oh, how could hope have ever so beguiled! "Amenaïde!" her kind old nurse's voice; "Nay, come to me, dear child, come and rejoice." Wondering, she enters, strangers round her stand, And kindly takes their lordly chief her hand. "So fair a peasant, sooth, but it is shame To tell thee, maiden, of another name. In the wild troubles which have rent our state Thy noble father met an exile's fate:— Nay, not that anxious look; he is no more, And sorrowing Genoa can but restore His honours to his child: I was aware, Thanks to that faithful creature's parent care, His daughter lived; and dear the task to me To bring these words, and let Arezzi be

The first to greet and honour, Countess, mine, Loveliest, and last of Alfiori's line.

II.

Fit for a palace was that lovely room, Hung with the azure of an eastern loom, And carpeted with velvet, where the flowers Companion'd those whereon the April hours Had shed their beauty; numbers stood around Of vases where each varying hue was found, From the white myrtle-bud and lily-bell, Like pearls that in the ocean-waters dwell, To those rich tints which on the tulip lie, Telling their southern birth and sunny sky, The wine-cups of the sun:—each silken blind Waved to and fro upon the scented wind,

Now closing till the twilight-haunted room Was in an atmosphere of purple gloom, First scarcely letting steal one crimson ray, Then flung all open to the glowing day. Pictures were hung above; how more than fair! The changing light made almost life seem there. A faint rose-colour wander'd o'er the cheek, Seem'd the chance beams from each dark eye to break; And you could deem each braided auburn wave Moved, as its gold the glancing sun-light gave. And fitting mistress had the charmed scene: Leant, like a beautiful and eastern queen, Upon a purple couch—how soft and warm Clung the rich colour to her ivory arm!—

Amenaïde reclined. Awhile she lay,— Then, as if movement hurried time away, She paced the room, gazed on each pictured face,— Then wreath'd the flowers,—then watch'd, as if to trace The evening close: again the couch was press'd, But feverish, restless, more for change than rest: And yet all this was only the excess Of overmuch impatient happiness. Many a weary hour and day had past For that young Countess,—this day was the last. He was return'd, with all war could confer Of honourable name, to home and her. Leoni would to-night be in the hall Where Count Arezzi held his festival, Would hear her history; how there was now Nothing to chain the heart or check the vow.

—And must they meet first in a careless crowd? This was a moment's grief; though she felt proud That he should see how well she could beseem Her present rank, yet keep her early dream; See her the worship'd of the courtly throng, Sigh of each lip, and idol of each song; Hear the fair flatteries offer'd, yet behold Her courtesy so graceful, but so cold; And know it was for him her heart's young throne Was ever kept, the lovely and the lone.

III.

O pleasant was that night the toilet's care— What broider'd robe to don, what gems to wear! Her hair was parted on her brow, each braid Black as the dark-wing'd raven's darkest shade,

And gather'd up with diamonds,—few there were— Just stars to light the midnight of her hair. Well did the sweeping robe of emerald green, Wrought in rich gold, suit with her stately mien. "How beautiful she looks this evening!" burst From every lip, when that fair Countess first Enter'd Arezzi's hall: her heart's content To every lighted look its lustre lent. Her beauty's fault had been, it was too cold; Features too tranquil in their perfect mould, A cheek somewhat too pale; but not to-night— The eye was sparkling, and the cheek was bright. Gently she glided to a balustrade, Where jessamine a pleasant shadow made: It raised no marvel; never had her hand With its white beauty link'd the saraband;

And seldom did she join the converse gay, Where the light flattery gains its gilded way: They seldom won more than a few cold words, As when unskilful hands awake the chords Or some lorn lute, the music of whose tone Lives for one touch, and only for that one. She dwelt within the circle of her heart, A charm'd world, lovely, lonely, and apart, Where it had seem'd to her as sin and shame Aught there had enter'd, not in his dear name. —It was a spell-touch'd hour. That gorgeous hall, With perfume floating and with music's fall, Light steps, and gentle laugh, and whispers bland,— Was it their words or the sweet airs that fann'd The beauty's cheek into a redder rose?— And starry eyes, like what the clear night shows,

But wandering ones; and there were golden curls Like sudden sunshine; and dark braids, whose pearls Were lost on the white neck when there they fell; And there were shapes, such as in pictures dwell; It look'd like fairy land. With eager glance She watch'd the door, and counted every dance; Then time grew long, hope caught a shade of fear— "Leoni—but they said he would be here!" When sudden came Arezzi to her side,— "Look there, the Count Leoni and his bride! She with the violet wreath in her bright hair; Sooth but to say, that English bride is fair! But I must go and have my welcome paid." Alone Amenaïde stood in the shade,— Alone! ay, utterly. A couch was nigh, And there she sank—oh, had it been to die!

IV.

Alas for the young heart thus early thrown Back on itself, the unloved and the lone! For this should be the lesson of long years, The weary knowledge taught and traced by tears, Till even those are frozen, and we grow Cold as the grave that yawns for us below: But this was like those sudden blasts that fling Unlook'd-for winter on the face of spring,— And worst woe for the heart, whose early fate Leaves it so young, and, oh, so desolate. She had one feeling left—it was of pride— Oh, misery; how much she had to hide! And steps were now approaching her: she sprung From off the couch, and every nerve was strung

For that worst rack, the rack of outward show, Still haunts such vanity the deepest woe. The heart may swell to bursting, but the while The features wear the seeming of a smile: The eye be lesson'd, and the lip be seal'd, And wretchedness be, like the plague, conceal'd. —It was the Count Arezzi: "What, still here!— Come, thou wild dreamer of another sphere, I must shut out the sky, if thus it share My stars, thine eyes, which should be shining there, Making yon hall its equal; but to-night You have, Amenaïde, a rival light. The English bride,—see round they crowd to gaze On the new loveliness her form displays. Why, she should bear the name which once you bore, —The peasant countess,—it would suit her more."

A moment, and the group were press'd aside, She stood before Leoni and his bride. He knew her history, and each met prepared; Cold looks were given, careless converse shared: At first Leoni shunn'd to meet her eye,— A moment's awkwardness,—but that pass'd by. How much we give to other hearts our tone, And judge of others' feelings by our own! Himself was alter'd:—all he sought to do Was to believe that she was alter'd too. Her cheek was paler than 'twas wont to be,— That was its round of midnight gaiety: Her smile less frequent, and her brow more grave,— 'Twas her new rank its stateliness that gave: New friends press'd round,—their interview is o'er,— And he pass'd on, to think of it no more;

And she to seem as thoughtless. Till to-night, Like some fair planet in its own far light, She shone apart; to-night she sought the crowd, Join'd in their mirthfulness, and laugh'd aloud; Was ready with gay converse,—that light mirth Which like the meteor has from darkness birth: She watch'd her circle,—ready smile or sneer,— Sneers for the absent ones, smiles for the near, Till every other hall sent forth its tide, And half the guests were gather'd at her side. It was an evil feeling that which now Flush'd on her cheek, and lighted up her brow— Part bitterness, part vanity, part woe— The passionate strife which pride and misery know; A burning wish to wake a vain regret In that false one, who now had best forget;

To show Leoni how that she, the queen, Made his fair Edith nothing on the scene: Her rival—hers—language has not a word By woman's ear so utterly abhorr'd. No marvel, for it robs her only part Of sweet dominion—empire o'er the heart.

V.

Leoni and his bride have left the hall. Why does that cheek grow pale, that dark eye fall? Why does that lip its wit, its smiling cease?— It only pass'd for beauty's gay caprice. She left the feast—but, oh, not yet alone; Many a cavalier has eager flown Upon her gondola's home course to wait, And sigh farewell at her own palace-gate.

Her maidens gather'd round. What more, yet more, To read the breast now throbbing to the core? She hurried not their task,—each silken braid Of raven hair was in set order laid: But once she show'd her weakness,—when her hand Strove vainly to unloose a glittering band, It trembled like a leaf:—but that pass'd by; Struggle she might, but no one heard her sigh; And when her last good night was courteous said, Never more queenlike seem'd that lofty head. The last step died upon the marble stair,— She sprang towards the door,—the bolt is there:— She tried the spring, gave one keen look around, Mutter'd "alone!" and dash'd her on the ground. Corpse-like she lay,—her dark hair wildly thrown Far on the floor before her; white as stone,

As rigid stretch'd each hand,—her face was press'd Close to the earth; and but the heaving vest Told of some pang the shuddering frame confess'd, She seem'd as stricken down by instant death.— Sudden she raised her head, and gasp'd for breath; And nature master'd misery. She sought, Panting, the air from yonder lattice brought. Ah, there is blood on that white lip and brow!— She struggles still—in vain—she must weep now: She wept, childlike, till sleep began to press Upon her eyes, for very weariness. She sleeps!—so sleeps the wretch beside the stake: She sleeps!—how dreadful from such sleep to wake!

VI.

She was both proud and cold: not hers the heart Easy to lure, and ready to depart—

A trifle, toy—but that fair Countess gave No common gift when she became a slave; And only did she hold her gift redeem'd, By that high worthiness she had but dream'd. A peasant, yet she felt his equal still; And when her lofty state beseem'd her will, It was such pride, such pleasure, to have known Leoni's love was for herself alone. And in her young romance's loftier view One touch of vanity might mingle too: It was the triumph of her lowlier state She had been even then a noble's mate. Amenaïde had many faults; her youth Had seen too soon life's bitterness and truth: The cutting word, the cold or scornful look, All that her earlier days had had to brook—

The many slights the humble one receives— Lay on her memory like wither'd leaves; And homage from the crowd, and lovers' praise, Were all too apt disgust and doubt to raise. There was a something wayward in her mood; She left her heart too much to solitude: For kindly thoughts are social; but she held A scornful creed, and sympathy repell'd. That sullen barrier had one gentle break— She loved,—she loved,—and for Leoni's sake Believed there were some angel steps on earth:— As truth that keeps the promise of its birth; As faith that will not change, that will not tire, And deems its gold the purer for the fire. Her love was all her nature's better part, The confidence, the kindness of her heart

The source of all the sweet or gentle there: But this was past—what had it left?—despair!

VII.

The wind threw back the curtain fraught with rose:— Can sorrow be upon such gales as those? Yes, for it waked the Countess. Up she sprung, Startled, surprised, to see how she was flung By the veranda,—and that open, too; Her hair was heavy with the weight of dew; Scarcely aroused, painful and slow she raised Her weary head, and round in wonder gazed. It was her own fair room,—some frightful dream, But indistinct,—she struggled with a scream: Her eye has caught a mirror,—that pale face,— Why lip and brow are sullied by the trace

Of blood; its stain is on her tangled hair, Which shroud-like hides the neck that else were bare. Around that neck there is a fragile chain, And memory's flood comes rushing o'er her brain: Leoni's gift,—its slight gold links are broken,— So are the vows of which it was the token. Who has not loathed that worst, that waking hour, When grief and consciousness assert their power; When misery has morn's freshness, yet we fain Would hold it as a dream, and sleep again; Then know 'tis not illusion of the night, And sicken at the cold and early light? How ever shall we pass the weary day, When thus we shudder at its opening ray? She gazed upon the glass, then glanced around, In wonder at the contrast which she found.

The walls were faintly colour'd with the bloom Which comes when morn has struggled through the gloom, And blushes for success: the silken veil Of the blue hangings seem'd to catch the gale, Then keep its sweetness prisoner: on the floor The Persian loom had spread its velvet store: Vases stood round, each carved with such fine art, The flowers that fill'd seem'd of themselves a part; A sandal lute lay on an inlaid stand, Whose rich wrought ivory spoke its Indian land; Shells of bright colours, foreign toys of gold, And crystals wrought in many a curious mould; Pictures, a prince's ransom in their worth; Small alabaster statues—all that earth

Has rich or varied, all that wealth could buy, Loathing she turn'd. "Yet what a wretch am I! This must not be!—stain'd cheek and fever'd brow Too much the secret of my soul avow. Aye deep as is the grave my heart shall keep What burning tears Amenaïde could weep. Oh, never let Leoni know the worst: 'Tis well if he believe I changed the first. Too much e'en to myself has been reveal'd, —And thus be every trace of tears conceal'd." She sought the alcove where the fountain play'd, And wash'd from lip and cheek their crimson shade; And bathed her long hair, till its glossy curls Wore not a trace but of the dewy pearls The waters left, as if in pity shed; She loosed the bolt, and sought her silken bed;

But easier far had been the rack, the wheel:— When hath the body felt what mind can feel?

VII.

The weary day pass'd on—night came again:— Amenaïde has join'd the glittering train; Self-torturer—self-deceiver—cold and high, She said it was to mock the curious eye. Such strength is weakness. Was it not to be Where still, Leoni, she might gaze on thee? —She heard the history of his English bride: A patient nurse at her pale mother's side Leoni saw her first:—that mother's hand (A stranger she and wanderer in the land) Gave the sweet orphan to his care,—and here Was all to soften, all that could endear.

Together wept they o'er the funeral stone, His the sole heart she had to lean upon. Now months had pass'd away, and he was come To bring his beautiful, his dear one home. Her beauty was like morning's, breathing, bright, Eyes glittering first with tears, and then with light, And blue, too glad to be the violet's blue, But that which hangs upon it, lucid dew,— Its first clear moment, ere the sun has burst The azure radiance which it kindled first;— A cheek of thousand blushes; golden hair, As if the summer sunshine made it fair; A voice of music, and such touching smile, Amenaïde sigh'd, "Well might they beguile!" —Love, what a mystery thou art!—how strange Thy constancy, yet still more so thy change!