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That mournful look and glistering eye—
That quivering lip and broken sigh;—
Why crowd each shrine of memory?
"O, that to-morrow's dawn would rise
To light me on my path of glory,
Where I may pluck from niggard fame
Her bravest laurels—and the name
That long shall live in minstrel story!
"Then, when my thirst for fame is dead,
Soft love may claim his wonted due;
But now, when levelled lances gleam,
And chargers snort, and banners stream,
To lady's love a long adieu!"
