O’er blighted memories. Thou art, like me,
In heart a mourner. In thy solitude,
When mortal eyes behold thee not, wild sighs
Convulse thy bosom, and thy hot tears fall
Like burning rain. Oh! ’twas thy hand that dealt
The blow to both our hearts. I well could bear
My own fierce sufferings, but thus to feel
That thou, in all thy manhood’s glorious strength
Dost bear a deep and voiceless agony,
Lies on my spirit with the dull, cold weight