Vain, bitter glory!—the gift of grief,
That lights up vengeance to find relief,
Transient and faithless! It cannot fill
So the deep void of the heart, nor still
The yearning left by a broken tie,
That haunted fever of which we die!
Sickening she turn’d from her sad renown,
As a king in death might reject his crown.
Slowly the strength of the walls gave way—
She wither’d faster from day to day: