The past—the past will still intrude—
Memory—the wretch’s hell.
Chance choose the clime—I only seek—
To what else tortures bound—
The spirit feel no vulture beak
Of pity in the wound.
Then speed we forth—ay, speed we forth—
I know not—care not where;
Thou’lt build on any spot of earth
Thy lone, proud home, Despair.