 | The path of sorrow, or, the lament of youth |  |
Though the Rose of my Eden is blasted!
“They made an exile—not a slave of me.”
Byron.
Byron.
I.
Though the rose of my Eden is blasted,And the bloom of my youth must decay!
Though the treasure I nurtured is wasted,
Yet, my gloom shall receive a bright ray.
Though the morn of my prospect is over,
And my spring time to winter is changed!
Though my heart shall lie bleeding forever,
Yet, my soul shall not wander estranged.
II.
Though the rock of my fortress is shivered,And the star of my glory gone down!
Though the cord of my blessing is sivered,
Yet, I never shall murmur or frown.
Though the eye of my morning is weeping,
And my Bark dashed to flinders shall lie!
Though my bosom in sorrow is reeking,
Yet, my soul shall remember the tie!
III.
Though my sun is eclipsed in its shining,And my rainbow of childhood has fled!
Though my glee is now bartered for pining!
Yet, it shall not encumber my head.
Though the home of my birth is forsaken,
And my remnant of weal cast ashore!
Though my mystical flight is o'ertaken!
Yet, I never shall suffer it more.
IV.
Though I murmur, and grieve, with repining,And my lamp soon shall glimmer away!
Yet, my heart and my soul is inclining
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Though such blight may encumber my glory,
And storms inundate me with guile!
Though I feel that my heart is now sorry,
Yet, it never shall break—I will smile.
V.
Though the gloom of regret lowers o'er me,And the winter of sorrows remain!
Yet, my heart shall revere—nor forget thee,
And hope still to meet thee again.
Though a frost nipped my flower in beauty,
And withered my blossoms at home!
Though I paid her the tribute of duty,
My parting shall not make me groan,
VI.
Though I honored, caressed, and revered her,And prophecied vital content!
Though my heart and my soul did respect her—
For prodigal love—I lament!
Though she filled me with premature torture,
And stole all my childhood and glee!
Though she sacrificed wisdom and virtue,
She never shall confiscate me!
VII
Though my days of beatitude's over,And my domil fruitions all gone!
Though I sigh as a pilgrim forever,
Yet, I done naught to make me attone!
Then, farewell ye fate stricken stranger!
And all that vindictive, foul crew!
For, I rescue my heart from a danger,
By bidding such rebels adieu!
| The path of sorrow, or, the lament of youth | |