Moyarra could not calm his breast.
Ye who have seen a cultured mind
Range wild, by no restraint confined,
And at each thwarting of its will
In recklessness plunge deeper still;
Think, then, what passions rent the heart
Of one not schooled by rules of art.
A child of impulse, he had been
Till now, spectator in life's scene,
And thus to play such bitter part
Wrung sighs of anguish from his heart.
He sunk to sleep, but 'twas to reap
Fresh torture from a feverish dream.
His bark was gliding down life's stream,
Racked gently by the ambient tide;
A guardian angel by his side
Seemed round an atmosphere to shed
Hallowing the scenes through which they sped;
For them the varied shores of life
With aye-enduring bliss seemed rife;
Each hour owned hues too bright to last
Yet each was rival of the past.
Alas! he little knew the wave
Whose gentle dalliance rose to lave
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