Which soft descends on life's bright morning beam,
By angels sent from happier worlds above,
And poured into the soul that calls it Love?
Aye—break the chain of slumber from the mind
And watch the wreck that vision leaves behind.
Then mark the spirit in its solitude,
Its scorn, and torture, and despairing mood!
Its midnight hours unsheltered even by sleep,
Its griefs too wild, too hopeless even to weep;
Its memory brimmed with pains, its moments slow
By pangs divided—its existence, woe!
Alas! when misery comes, Time clips his wing,
And walks in fetters, and we hear them ring;
While still the vulture in the rock-nailed heart
Crimsons his beak, and never will depart!
The morning dawned upon that sun-steeped plain:
What saw the peasant?—Steed and rider slain!
But chief his eye was daunted by a form
So bold, in life it might have ruled a storm—
And fondly ivying round it were the arms
Of a fair woman, whose all powerful charms
Even death had failed to conquer—her lips seemed
Still parted by sweet breath, as if she dreamed
Of him in her embrace: but they who thought
That life was tenanting her breast, and sought
Some answer from her heart to hush the doubt,
Found that its eloquence had all burned out.