Vain were the tempests of my rage, the mists of my repenting.
The night was dark, the storm had come, the fancy-stars of youth
Were covered over by the thick unfading cloud of truth;
So one by one my hopes went back, each hid its pale white face,
Till all was dark, and all was drear, and all was black disgrace.
O Rob, good-by; a solemn one!—'tis till the Judgment-day.
You look about you for the boy? You never more shall see him.
He's crying for his father now full many miles away;
For he is mine—you need not rage—you can not find or free him.
We might have been so peaceful here, with nothing of reproving—