It matters not, wild Passion’s dreams is past,
The soul is stagnant—but it sleeps no more.
Cradled in heaven, but entombed in hell,
Then comes the torture of its aching void,
Silent, beneath the suffocating press
Of bitter, sullen agony it lies.
The spirit sickens with its loneliness —
And thirst of power dissolves the icy spell,
Which bound its pulses into leaden sleep;
Then mad Ambition withers down the wrecks