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Ideal Likenesses.
Itself has broken, so that it could be
Less desolate, although no longer free.
She loved! again her ardent soul was buoy'd
On Hope's bright wings, above life's dreary void
Again its fond illusions were received,
Centred in one the dearest yet believed;
It ended as illusions ever must,
The shining temple prostrate dust to dust.
Look on that brow, is it not stamp'd with pride?
How might it brook the grief it could not hide!
Look on that lip, it has a sad sweet smile,
How may it brook to feel alone the while!
Overhead was the storm, beneath the sea,
And Love and Genius found their destiny—
Despair and Death.
