Many had blessed him as he passed them by,
And hushed their hearts to listen to his singing;
And shouted his name upward to the sky—
Roses and gems upon his pathway flinging;
But fainting he had turned him from the throng,
Sighing his sorrow to himself and song.
There had been one to whom his heart went forth
In his young manhood—love's free gift, unbidden;
But she was fair and frigid as the north,
And the warm breathings of his lyre were chidden:
And from that hour it took an altered tone,
Singing to Nature and itself alone.
But now his course was ended; and his gaze
Watched the red sunset fading from the sky—
The last his eyes might look on; while a maze
Of half-forgotten memories flitted by;
A breeze came from the sea and stirred his hair,
And fancy felt his mother's fingers there.
Deeper the crimson of the sunset grew;
An old church-tower that loomed against the west,
Lifting its pinnacle to the far blue,
Pictured to him his own deserted breast,
That rent and ruined, let the sunset in,
Gilding in mockery the shapeless scene.
How had his life been wasted; he had spent
His youth, his manhood, all his young bright years,
In giving one poor passion its full vent,
And it rewarded him with heart-wrung tears,
Till the slow fever sapped his veins all dry,
Nor blood refreshed his heart, nor tears his eye.
Then like an old man with a century's weight
