But the chords refuse the melody they once gave out for me;
And when I fain a few wild notes from memory’s lyre would sweep,
Sad spirits of the past appear and mournful vigils keep.
There was a time when borne along on wild ambition’s wing,
I sought to place my name above—where storied minstrels sing;
Nor dreamed the crown, so bright and green, by laureate genius worn,
Though gorgeous to the eye, each leaf concealed a cruel thorn.
But when I saw that those who gazed above with eagle eye,
And dared the tempest and the storm of fate’s malignant sky,
With folded wing, and wearied foot sat down at evening’s gloom,