And well he feels to trace her flight were vain,
—Where hath lost love been once recall’d again?
In her pure breast, so long by anguish torn,
His name can rouse no feeling now—but scorn.
O bitter hour! when first the shuddering heart
Wakes to behold the void within—and start!
To feel its own abandonment, and brood
O’er the chill bosom’s depth of solitude.
The stormy passions that in Hamet’s breast
Have sway’d so long, so fiercely, are at rest;