PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE
201
I renew, in my fond vision,
My heart's dear pain,
My hope, and thy derision,
Florence Vane.
The ruin lone and hoary,
The ruin old,
Where thou didst hark my story,
At even told,—
That spot — the hues Elysian
Of sky and plain—
I treasure in my vision,
Florence Vane.
Thou wast lovelier than the roses
In their prime;
Thy voice excelled the closes
Of sweetest rime;
Thy heart was as a river
Without a main.
Would I had loved thee never,
Florence Vane!
But, fairest, coldest wonder!
Thy glorious clay
Lieth the green sod under—
Alas the day!
And it boots not to remember
Thy disdain—
To quicken love's pale ember,
Florence Vane.
