Of disappointed Passion, as the crash
Of thunder follows in the lightning’s path;
The myrtle-wreath, now trampled and despoiled,
Is dashed aside to grasp a laurel crown.
The meed of genius, and of victory!
The past becomes a broken altar-stone.
But from the ashes of its cold despair
The strong soul rises into glorious life,
Like a young Phœnix flaming into birth.
Sweet rainbow-tinted fancies have decayed,