And who can tell what visions might be thine?
The stream of thought, though broken, still was pure!
Still o'er that wave the stars of heaven might shine,
Where earthly image would no more endure!
Tho' many a step, of once-familiar sound,
Came as a stranger's o'er thy closing ear,
And voices breathed forgotten tones around,
Which that paternal heart once thrill'd to hear,
The mind hath senses of its own, and powers
To people boundless worlds, in its most wandering hours.
Nor might the phantoms, to thy spirit known
Be dark or wild, creations of remorse;
Unstain'd by thee, the blameless past had thrown
No fearful shadows o'er the future's course;
For thee no cloud, from memory's dread abyss,
Might shape such forms as haunt the tyrant's eye;
And closing up each avenue of bliss,
Murmur their summons, to "despair and die!"
No! e'en tho' joy depart, tho' reason cease,
Still virtue's ruin'd home is redolent of peace.
