It was not unrequited love 35
That bade my ’wildered spirit rove;
’Twas not the pride disdaining life,
That with this mortal world at strife
Would yield to the soul’s inward sense,
Then groan in human impotence, 40
And weep because it is not given
To taste on Earth the peace of Heaven. 
’Twas not that in the narrow sphere
Where Nature fixed my wayward fate
There was no friend or kindred dear 45
Formed to become that spirit’s mate,
Which, searching on tired pinion, found
Barren and cold repulse around;
Oh, no! yet each one sorrow gave
New graces to the narrow grave. 50
For broken vows had early quelled
The stainless spirit’s vestal flame;
Yes! whilst the faithful bosom swelled,
Then the envenomed arrow came,
And Apathy’s unaltering eye 55
Beamed coldness on the misery;
And early I had learned to scorn
The chains of clay that bound a soul
Panting to seize the wings of morn,
And where its vital fires were born 60
To soar, and spur the cold control
Which the vile slaves of earthly night
Would twine around its struggling flight.

Oh, many were the friends whom fame
Had linked with the unmeaning name, 65
Whose magic marked among mankind
The casket of my unknown mind,
Which hidden from the vulgar glare
Imbibed no fleeting radiance there. 
My darksome spirit sought—­it found 70
A friendless solitude around. 
For who that might undaunted stand,
The saviour of a sinking land,
Would crawl, its ruthless tyrant’s slave,
And fatten upon Freedom’s grave, 75
Though doomed with her to perish, where
The captive clasps abhorred despair.

They could not share the bosom’s feeling,
Which, passion’s every throb revealing,
Dared force on the world’s notice cold 80
Thoughts of unprofitable mould,
Who bask in Custom’s fickle ray,
Fit sunshine of such wintry day! 
They could not in a twilight walk
Weave an impassioned web of talk, 85
Till mysteries the spirits press
In wild yet tender awfulness,