146
THE VALLEY OF THE
But bitter memory will not die:
It haunts my soul when none is nigh:
I hear its whisper in the sigh
Of that complaining wind.
And now in death my soul is fain
To tell the tale of fear
That secret in my breast hath lain
Through many a weary year:
Yet time would fail to utter all—
The evil spells that held me thrall,
And thrust my life from fall to fall,
Thou needest not to hear.
The spells that bound me with a chain
Sin's stern behests to do,
Till Pleasure's self, invoked in vain,
A heavy burden grew—
