III.
Awhile my hopes will tower aloft in air
On cheerful wings, till, weary with their flight,
They fall relaxed from their Icarian height,
And leave me on the surges of despair.
This change from bliss to ruin who could bear?
Oh wearied heart! in this thy dark estate
Of wretchedness be vigorous and elate,—
Calms follow storms, and frowning ends in fair.
By force of arm myself will undertake,
Though fraught with danger and alarming ill,
To break a barrier none beside would break;
Death—durance—nought shall countervail my will,
To come to thee, my Beauty, saved or lost,
Or as a living form, or naked ghost!