Disenchanted by habit, and newly awaking,
Looks languidly round on a gloom-buried world.
Through that gloom he will see but a shadow appearing,
Perceive but a voice as I come to his side;
—But deeper their voice grows, and nobler their bearing,
Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died.
So, to wait! But what notes down the wind, hark! are driving?
'Tis he! 'tis their flag, shooting round by the trees!
—Let my turn, if it will come, be swift in arriving!
Ah! hope cannot long lighten torments like these.
Hast thou yet dealt him, O life, thy full measure?
World, have thy children yet bowed at his knee?
Hast thou with myrtle-leaf crowned him, O pleasure?
—Crown, crown him quickly, and leave him for me.
REQUIESCAT.
Strew on her roses, roses,
And never a spray of yew:
In quiet she reposes;
Ah! would that I did too!
Her mirth the world required;
She bathed it in smiles of glee.
But her heart was tired, tired,
And now they let her be.
