REMORSE.

Go, get thee gone. I love thee not, I swear;

And if I lov'd thee well in days gone by,

And if I kiss'd, and trifled with thy hair,

And crown'd my love, to prove the same a lie,

My doom is this: my joy was quick to die.

The chain of custom in the drowsy lair

Of some slain vision, is a weight to bear,

And both abhorr'd it,— thou as well as I.

Ah, God!‘ tis tearful true; and I repent;

And like a dead, live man I live for this:—

To stand, unvalued, on a dream's abyss,

And be my own most piteous monument.

What! did I rob thee, Lady, of a kiss?

There, take it back; and frown; and be content!