Page:Oriental Sketches Dramatic Sketches and Tales.pdf/157

Rh

Within a murderer's cell: I love thee not, I never loved thee, and this callous heart Is deaf to all thy pleadings: pleasure calls, And pomp and glory wait thee: 'mid the joys The world has still to give thee, lose all care For one who with his dying breath denies The passion that he lightly feigned, to win A toy that pleased him in his hour of bliss. When pleasure winged the frolic day, the world Seemed fresh and blooming, and my buoyant heart Looked smiling onwards to succeeding years As redolent with hope, and peace, and joy— When thou, a conqueror, singled from a group Of fairer, brighter, wiser beings, one Whose only charm was her simplicity; Stealing her inmost soul away with vows Tender, and sweet, and winning, as the song The siren sung of old; dazzling her eyes With glorious deeds, and seeming in her sight