Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine—
A green isle in the sea, love—
A fountain and a shrine
All wreathed round with wild flowers,
And all the flowers were mine!
But the dream—it could not last;
Young Hope! thou did'st arise
But to be overcast !
A voice from out the Future cries
" Onward !" while o'er the Past,
Dim Gulf! —my spirit hovering lies,
Mute — motionless — aghast !
For alas !—alas !—with me
Ambition —all— is o'er;
" No more — no more — no more"—
(Such language holds the breaking sea
To the sands upon the shore,)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar !
And all my hours are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where the dark eye glances—
And where thy footstep gleams
In what ethereal dances,
By what Italian streams.
Alas ! for that accursed time
They bore thee o'er the billow,
From me!—to titled age and crime,
And an unholy pillow—
From Love, and from our misty clime,
Where weeps the silver willow!
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