“A fatal gift hath been thy dower,
Lord of the Lyre! to me;
With song and wreath from bower to bower,
Sisters went bounding like young Oreads free;
While I, through long, lone, voiceless hours apart,
Have lain and listen’d to my beating heart.
“Now, wasted by the inborn fire,
I sink to early rest;
The ray that lit the incense-pyre
Leaves unto death its temple in my breast.