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Of cruel disappointments—of a hell
That gloweth in the bosom, fierce and fell,
Which may not be extinguished—of the pains
Of journeying through lone and trackless plains
Which have no limits—and of savage faces,
That showed no trait of pity!
Then that maid
Stretched her long arms to heaven, and wept for shame;
And as upon her soul dim bodements came,
Once more, in veriest sadness, thus she said:
'I may not cheer him more! I may not breathe
Life in his wasting limbs, nor healthy fire
In his grief-sunken eye—I may not wreathe
Fresh flowers for him to gaze on, nor inspire
Delicious dreamings, when the paly host
Of cares and troubles weigh his spirit down,
And hopes delayed, in worse despair are lost;
Unaided, he may sink upon the path,
No hand of succour near, nor melting eye
To yield its pittance poor of sympathy;
Already, too successful have I weaved
My tiny web of folly; undeceived,
At length, he'll view its baseless fabrick pass,
Like fleeting shadows o'er the brittle glass,
