Far have I roamed for years and years,
As from my thoughts I fain would stray;
But here once more I weep my tears
O'er her now mouldering in the clay.
Oh! would that happy day were come
When death shall set my spirit free,
And I shall rise to yonder home,
And be again with Rosalie,
Where is no worm to gnaw the bud,
And none to blight the youthful bloom;
Where spirits sing in joyful mood,
"Behold our triumph o'er the tomb!"
XXIII.
THE BALLAD OF THE WORLD'S VANITY.
I.
Mournfully maundering,
Life's last moments squandering,
Weary, weary, wandering,
Through this world of sin,
Hermit-shade! I call thee;
Lead me to the valley--
That mysterious alley,
Where I may creep in.
World of strange illusion!
Fancy-born delusion!
Reason-bred confusion!
Phantasmagoria!
Love, where shall I find thee?
Faith, how shall I bind thee?
Truth, who has defined thee?
Changing every day.
Streets of hurry scurry!
Fields of fire and fury!
Homes of wear and worry!
Passing quickly by;
Pleasure a wild snatching,
Dying in the catching,
Pain eternal watching
With relentless eye.
Sorrow, old Sin's daughter!
Screams of eldritch laughter!
Burning tears thereafter!
I've felt the vanity;
Still the hope pursuing,
The pursuit ever rueing,
Possession still undoing
The hope's fond prophecy.
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