Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/254

 That mournful look and glistering eye— That quivering lip and broken sigh;— Why crowd each shrine of memory?

"O, that to-morrow's dawn would rise To light me on my path of glory, Where I may pluck from niggard fame Her bravest laurels—and the name That long shall live in minstrel story!

"Then, when my thirst for fame is dead, Soft love may claim his wonted due; But now, when levelled lances gleam, And chargers snort, and banners stream, To lady's love a long adieu!"