LVI. Her lover sinks-she sheds no ill-timed tear; What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is lost? Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, LXI. Oft have I dream'd of thee! whose glorious name Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore: I tremble, and can only bend the knee; Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall ?1 In silent joy to think at last I look on thee! Nay, smile not at my sullen brow, And dost thou ask what secret woe It is not love, it is not hate, Nor low Ambition's honours lost, It is that weariness which springs It is that settled, careless gloom The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore, That will not look beyond the tomb, But cannot hope for rest before. What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of Life-the demon Thought. |