156 
Too proud to complain, I enfolded the grief 
In my bosom, and, brooding o’er life’s silent 
stream, 
I fancied’t would give to my anguish relief, 
Could I turn from the past, to the future’s bright 
dream. 
From the wrong I had suffered my spirit uprose — 
A sceptic in love, but a Phosnix in pride. 
Midst the fair tilings of earth, I would solace my 
woes, 
With love too would sport, and its power 
deride. 
Oh, rash was the vow, for the rose had its thorn, 
Concealed in luxuriant foliage from view, 
And the hand which had rifled its sweetness was 
torn, 
As it dared to intrude where the bright flower 
grew! 
