 | The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems |  |
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TO THE SAME.
I.
To thee, howe'er in early days,I struck the willing notes of praise,
Nor grudged the grateful strain,
I dare not now attune one song,
To love, remember'd, O! how long,
Thro, happiness and pain!
II.
Thine old dominion o'er my heart,Thou still maintain'st in every part,
As firmly as before;
Yet, ah! the dream of hope which came,
Of old, to warm it into flame,
Shall never warm it more!
III.
Should not the dream, the fear, the pain,The dread of love's unhappy reign,
Be o'er, when Hope has fled;
When thou art lost with all the charms,
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And memory lives instead!
IV.
Alas! my destiny, is stillA greater tyrant than my will,
Since love remains alone—
And o'er my heart, and in my brain,
Exerts a wild and weary reign,
And will not now begone.
V.
Fond wretch! that like a pilgrim, stands,Return'd in age from foreign lands,
Within his ruin'd dome;
And stirs the ashes with his cane,
In hope to find, once more the fane,
That mark'd his childhood's home!
VI.
A greater ruin even than they,For none of those, of yesterday,
Who circled him around,
Are there, to greet him with a tear,
And say, his heart is buried, where
Yon hillock breaks the ground!
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VII.
Thus love within my lonely heart,Stirs the sad rains in each part,
And from his search, discerns—
That Hope is buried long, and cold—
What truth and time, too late, unfold,
And love, too early, learns!
| The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems | |