Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/138

Rh

We loathe the present, and we dread To think on what to come may be; We look back on the past, and trace A thousand wrecks, a troubled sea. I have been over many lands, And each and all I found the same; Hope in its borrow'd plumes, and care Madden'd and mask'd in pleasure's name. I have no tale of knightly deed: Why should I tell of guilt and death, Of plains deep dyed in human blood, Of fame which lies in mortal breath. I have no tale of lady love, Begun and ended in a sigh, The wilful folly nursed in smiles Though born in bitterness to die.