Smitten by lightning from a summer sky,
Or bearing in its heart a slow decay,
What matter, since inexorable fate
Is pitiless to slay.
Ah, wayward soul, hedged in and clothed about,
Doth not thy life's lost hope lift up its head,
And, dwarfing present joys, proclaim aloud,—
"Look on me, I am dead!"
MARY LOUISE RITTER.
"On this day I completed my thirty-sixth year." —MISSOLONGHI, JANUARY 23, 1824.
'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it has ceased to move: Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!
My days are in the yellow leaf,
The flowers and fruits of love are gone: The worm, the canker, and the grief,
Are mine alone.
The fire that in my bosom preys
Is like to some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze,—
A funeral pile.
The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.
But 'tis not thus,—and 'tis not here,
Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier,
Or binds his brow.