THE PHANTOM LAND. 551 



ff But I was not of them. The darksome caves 



Of the eternal and mysterious sea 



Are not more hidden by incumbent waves 



Than were the undiscovered depths in me 



The caverns of the soul the living graves 



Of pride that blights, and passion that enslaves 



Depths that were never known, and ne'er shall be. 



" My pleasures were not those that charmed mankind, 

 I scorned to seek them in the beaten track ; 

 And if they failed to satisfy the mind, 



And only served but why should I look back? 



Alas ! I must look back ; for O ! I find 

 The memory is a power too strong to bind. 

 Ah ! who can shun confession on the rack I 



<c My pleasures only served to sacrifice 

 Health, comfort, calm content, and fireside joy ; 

 My powers I wielded to confound the nice 

 Distinctions between good and ill destroy 

 The character of Virtue and make Vice 

 Apppear an angel fit for paradise. 

 Yes ! such was my detestable employ. 



te O happiness ! men roam from land to land, 

 Search lordly palaces, frequent the mart, 

 Gaze on the bright, the beautiful, the grand, 

 To find thy dwelling, till they fear thou art 

 A phantom of the soul, nor understand 

 That thou art nowhere if not close at hand. 

 Thou dwell'st not in the world, but in the heart. 



ts But all is lost to me. Then hail ! my bane 

 Hail ! misery, and wretchedness, and woe ; 

 The storm may howHtself to rest the main 

 May cease to bellow when the wind falls low 

 The captive's wrist may rot out of its chain 

 And the child fret itself to sleep again, 

 But I must still this anguish undergo ! 



t( Morn here brings no relief there is no morn J 

 And proud misfortune cannot rise above 

 The pressure of a thousand ills with scorn ; 

 Nor Sorrow fret itself to death, like Love 

 Leaning her breast on the sharp-pointed thorn ; 

 Where, weary, wretched, hapless, and forlorn, 

 She mourns in secret like the riven dove. 



tf And thou, my harp ! whose music, loud or low, 

 In other and in better days would charm 

 My angry spirit for a while, when woe 

 Weighed down my feverish heart, alas ! no balm 

 Thy music to my soul can now bestow ; 

 Thou canst not mitigate one mental throe, 

 Much less the terrors of these depths disarm. 



