Long channeled fountains in his bosom broke;
Along his cheek faint flushes went and came,
As o’er an evening cloud the lightning’s flame;
And his frame thrilled and trembled as the trees
All quivering bend them to the autumn breeze.
Hell has no fiend like memory, when she brings
Repentance without hope, remorse’s stings,
And a long file of days, in sable weeds,
Mourning and weeping over past misdeeds.
Like a pale ghost that shuns the rising day,