 | The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems |  |
XXX.
And knew he now, in that sad hour,When death had prov'd his fearful pow'r,
40
Had sunk beneath his fatal blow,
How much the heart had been his own,
Won only, when forever gone.
A boyish joust in courtly Spain—
A time he would not see again,
Tho' pleasure then absorb'd all pain—
He felt the force of those dark eyes,
And, for the lover soon espies,
He fill'd his own with mute replies.
What boots it now, to tell the tale,
Of hapless love, and hopeless wail—
To chide the beggar Fortune, now,
That scorn'd the dream, and broke the vow;
Time, while it robs away each hope,
Can never, well with memory cope;
And love that scorns oblivion yet,
Can never, where it sigh'd, forget.
Immur'd in cold, conventual walls,
The tear of hidden maiden falls;
And not the regimen of pray'r,
Nor all the deep seclusion there—
And not the penance, creed, or vow,
Forc'd on a heart that could but bow,
And perish 'neath the unerring blow,
Could thrust aside the pleasant pain,
That neither heart shall know again!
| The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems | |