Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.
Thou hast my better years,
Thou hast my earlier friends—the good—the kind,
Yielded to thee with tears,—
The venerable form—the exalted mind.
My spirit yearns to bring
The lost ones back;—yearns with desire intense,
And struggles hard to wring
Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence.
In vain:—thy gates deny