I dreamed of marvels,—and awoke to grieve.
Forests and native hills are vanished,
And thought doth fail, on weary pinions fled,
And sinketh in a hidden stillness drear.
The lute is silent in my stiffened hand,
And ’mid the groan of comrades of my land,
The voices of the past I may not hear.
Still something of that youthful fire once mine
Smoulders within me, and at times its light
Wakens the soul and maketh memory bright.