XV.
Fate! in my griefs sole agent, how have I
Felt thy harsh rule! my vine, with hurtful hand,
Thou hast cut down, and scattered on the sand
Both flower and fruit; in little compass lie
My loves—the joys of summers far-flown by—
And every happier expectation turned
To scornful ashes, which, though scarce inurned,
Hear not the wrath and clamour of my cry.
The tears which thou to-day hast seen me shower
On this lone sepulchre, receive, receive!
Though there they may be fruitless, till the hour
When the brown shadows of an endless eve
Shall shroud these eyes, which saw on earth thy power,
Leaving me others which thou canst not grieve.