THE BACHELOR.
99
Pass on, then, proud lone one, pass on to thy fate;
Thy sentence is sealed, thy repentance too late;
Like an arrow, which leaves not a trace on the wind,
No mark of thy pathway shall linger behind.
Thy sentence is sealed, thy repentance too late;
Like an arrow, which leaves not a trace on the wind,
No mark of thy pathway shall linger behind.
Not a sweet voice shall murmur its sighs o'er thy tomb;
Not a fair hand shall teach thy lone pillow to bloom;
Not a kind tear shall water thy dark, lonely bed:
By the living 'twas scorned, 'tis refused to the dead.
Not a fair hand shall teach thy lone pillow to bloom;
Not a kind tear shall water thy dark, lonely bed:
By the living 'twas scorned, 'tis refused to the dead.
