Naught, naught is forgot—and a quivering thrill,
As I dwell on lang-syne, in my breast responds still.
Speak gently no more; I’m awak’ning now,
And Care’s darksome shadow steals over my brow;
My spirit has lost its fair rainbow hue,
And wrong, and deceit, cloud its roseate view:
With a mournful cry, through the wild rustling air,
Comes a voice which breathes ever a strain of despair.
Speak boldly and free—I’m not dreaming now;
Reality’s signet is stamped on my brow: