Wild fears about thee, wan despair above!
Crush'd hopes, like withered leaves, bestrew thy way!
Nothing that lives lov'st thou; nothing that lives
Loves thee. The drops that fall from Hecla's snow
'Neath the slant sun, are warmer than the flow
Of thy chill'd heart. Thine be the bolt that rives!
Be there no heaven to thee; the sky a pall;
The earth a rack; the air consuming fire;
The sleep of death and dust thy sole desire—
Life's throb a torture, and life's thought a thrall: