It grovels with the herd of Mammon’s slaves,
And drops of poisoned anguish from the heart
Will start and thicken on the pallid brow.
Deep disappointment, like the serpent’s fang,
Strikes through the spirit sharply, and the cry
Of midnight whirlwinds shrieking on the wold
Is not so weird and fearful. Tempest-tossed,
The soul must wander on its weary way,
Till, from the caverns of its being, rent
By strong fatality, a first, great love