XXIII Written for Angela 1802.
XXIII
Written for Angela
1802. [1]
'Tis past--the cruel anguish of suspence
Shall vex my soul no more! I know 'tis lost!
For ever lost to me! and all that most
On earth I valued, bought with dear expense
Of peaceful days, and nights of innocence,5
Lies wither'd in my grasp - Oh idle cost
Of squander'd hours! Oh vows of anguish tost
To the wild winds, which mock'd the eloquence
Of grief indignant, yet constrain'd to speak;
Now all is past; the desolating storm10
No longer can the bowers of bliss deform;
Its furious malice has no more to seek;
Each high aspiring hope lies all laid low
Sweep on ye powerless winds o'er your fall'n trophies blow.
