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 around about with flowers;

And the flowers — they all were mine.

 

But the dream — it could not last;

And the star of Hope did rise

But to be overcast,

A voice from out the Future cries

“Onward!” — but 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 solemn 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 thy 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 Love to titled age and crime,

And an unholy pillow —

From me, and from our misty clime,

Where weeps the silver willow.