Ah me! the laurelled wreath that Murder rears,
Blood-nursed, and watered by the widow’s tears,
Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread,
As waves the night-shade round the sceptic’s head.
What is the bigot’s torch, the tyrant’s chain?
I smile on death, if heavenward Hope remain!
But, if the warring winds of Nature’s strife
Be all the faithless charter of my life,
If Chance awaked, inexorable power,
This frail and feverish being of an hour;