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Literary Gazette, 8th May, 1830, Page 308
4. The Departed.
Set thy spur to thy steed, thy sail to the wind,
You may leave the far vale and the mountain behind;
Like the storm o'er the south in thy flight thou may'st be;
But where may'st thou fly from the memory of me?
The struggle, the pleasure, the toil, and the strife,
May fill up thy days with the hurry of life;
But night cometh lonely o'er land and o'er sea,
And in silence and shadow I still am with thee.
With no rose on my cheek, with no rose in my hair,
But cold as the love whose remembrance I bear,
Breathing vows that are broken, and hopes that are fled,
A voice breaks thy slumber—the voice of the dead.
Let thy loveliest slave lull thy sleep with her strain—
Ay, drain the red wine-cup,—it all is in vain:
From the haunt of thy midnight I will not depart,
For thy guilt is my power—my home is thy heart.
