"Oh, Fate!—accuse thy folly—not thy fate—
"She may redeem thee still—nor yet too late."
Thus with himself communion held he—till
He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hill: 340
There at the portal paus'd—for wild and soft
He heard those accents never heard too oft;
Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung,
And these the notes his bird of beauty sung:
"Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells,
Lonely and lost to light for evermore,
Save when to thine my heart responsive swells,
Then trembles into silence as before.
"There in its centre—a sepulchral lamp
Burns the slow flame eternal—but unseen; 350
Which not the darkness of despair can damp,
Though vain its ray as it had never been.